The Scream
by MeanderingM
Summary: Who knew? McCoy's fate was set in motion half a million years ago. Now he is enchanted by a quirky geologist assigned to the Enterprise, whose unexplained neurological features disrupt the ship and threaten her own life. Comedy, romance, and adventure – who could ask for more!
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note:

Thanks for clicking on my story. Unlike most people on this site I am an actual true Star Trek fan _**OOPS**_! My Facetious-o-meter just exploded. Dang. Okay, so, straight up, I borrowed some story elements and characters from TOS, SNG and DS9, plus concepts from some of my favorite SF writers, but isn't that what fan fiction is all about?

 _Fun Fact_ : Did you know "facetious" is a single word that has all five major vowels in alphabetical order? I don't know of any other! "Facetiously" is an even better word, with the "y" at the end, still in order. "Facetious? Why?" has all vowels in order, but it's a two-word phrase, so not nearly as much fun.

FYI, the narrator in "The Scream" is from the Continuum (yay TNG) call him "H." Section 1 (the first four chapters) is almost entirely a back-story, as narrated by H, to my Starfleet adventure, so if you want to skip it and start with being at Starfleet Academy (the fifth chapter, technically Chapter 2a), feel free.

Also, too, if you want to ignore the Academy and start with being on the Enterprise (the eighth chapter, technically Chapter 3a), also feel free. Whatever you do, just be warned, H intrudes on the story frequently, and he will tell you where in Section 1 to find pertinent info that you blew by. Prepare to be scolded by H if you fail to read all chapters closely and remember all the details. Tsk, tsk. It's all in fun.

Pretty much every character is named. I hope it's not too confusing. It was my way of acknowledging family, friends, and public figures whom I love and/or admire.

Hugs, /\/\/\/ (newbie author - could you tell?)

 **Section 1: Prelude**

 **Chapter 1a: From This Moment On**

What do you do when you're alone in the universe? Of course, the Ktak weren't actually alone, not in the galaxy much less the universe. But they had visited thousands of star systems and observed hundreds of promising species, and none of those species would be fulfilling that promise in fewer than a million years. The Ktak were patient, but they had their limits. So, yes, for all practical purposes, alone in the universe.

Not merely patient, the Ktak were also clever and resourceful, and so embarked on a program … Wait, moving too fast? Need some back-story? This IS the back-story. Or at least, it's the back-story to her-story. See what I did there? The history of her story, her being rather an odd duck with rather an odd story, but her story needs a back-story without question. And now it seems you're asking for some back-story to the back-story? Okay, but pay attention. We're not going through this twice.

First, about me. I'm going to be narrating her story. I was there, I am here, as an observer for all of it, so no one is better qualified than I to be the narrator. In addition, I really like almost all the people involved in her story, so that aspect at least doubles my qualifications. Many of my species don't like anyone in any story; frequently I don't like anyone either, but in this case, the exception probes the rule. I like them all. I do not like all that happens to them. You'll know when I'm unhappy about the storyline because I will give you warning that I am refraining from offering my opinion. I'll present the facts only, and move on as quickly as possible. Otherwise, get used to my asserting my opinions whenever I like. It is my nature.

Second, about the originators of this story.

Approximately 500,028 years ago, the Ktak were a lovely, graceful species, a little on the short side, hairless and sleek. They were intelligent creatures, creative, ambitious, adventurous – they possessed many, many really terrific assets. The most really terrific asset was the capability of neural communication – what primitives call telepathy. Neural communication enabled all Ktak to remember everything – their history, accomplishments, technology, leaders, whatever, accurately across the generations. Have a question? Here's the answer, transmitted into your very own brain: sights, sounds, smells, tastes, textures.

The Ktak were unable to transmit that which had not yet happened, so in order to anticipate and make plans, they had to talk about it. Oh, yes, the Ktak had a verbal language. Their verbal language was also lovely, but agile rather than graceful. They no longer had even vestigial vocal chords, but the facility of their tongues, remarkably muscled and flexible, combined with air pushing and popping through their lips and cheeks, led to a more than adequate verbal language. Five hundred thousand years hence, a Rrannimmese by the name of Solitaire Anon would make a joke with her friend, the Terran Janay Andersen: What do you call a Ktak who hangs out with an orchestra? The percussion section. Janay thought it was hilarious. Of course Janay thought most things were hilarious.

But back to the Ktak. And enough of the back-story to the back-story of her story in this ancient history.

The Ktak – not merely patient but also clever and resourceful, remember where we left off? – the Ktak embarked on a program to bring along some of those promising species a bit faster than evolution would allow. Quite a bit faster. They called it "The Project." Clever and resourceful they were, but entirely without verbal nuance. Having no written language discourages the development of sparkling vocabulary, although their neural communication – aka telepathy – led to stupendous visuals. A fair trade-off for being illiterate.

Some may find The Project shocking – what about the Prime Directive? But the Ktak had no Prime Directive, and even if they did, their Prime Directive would have been "Screw the Prime Directive." That was their nature.

So The Project: Genetically modify the DNA of the most promising species around the galaxy by substituting Ktak DNA. Ah, but which species? They must have some characteristics in common with the Ktak to begin with. Cht, a well-respected Ktak elder, came up with The List to which the other Ktak responded neurally upon presentation:

\- Land-dwelling, obviously. Air and water environments will never produce compatible species.

 _Strong recollected visions of gasping and drowning. Unpleasant. Land dwelling, check_.

\- Bipedal and dexterous, so tool wielding would be easy.

 _Wings and fins are perfectly lovely –_ _the Ktak applaud the dynamic visuals recollected_. _But not appropriate for working with delicate instruments. No. Bipedal, check. Dexterous, check._

\- Dual-sexual.

 _Enable further, faster mixing of DNA. Excellent point! Not infinitely patient, let's remember. Dual-sexual, check._

\- Carbon-based and oxygen breathing.

 _Yes, of course, very necessary. Goes without saying. So why are you saying it_?

\- Feathers or scales, bald or furry.

 _Utterly irrelevant. Are you joking? Why is this even on The List_?

Cht was finished with The List, and well finished with disrespectful reactions. Honestly, was it really necessary to neurally communicate every little quibble?

Then, which Ktak DNA should be gifted to all the lesser species? The debate was long and contentious. A committee was formed to pick the most divine traits of the Ktak people, eventually coming up with the following: intelligence, creativity, curiosity, ambition, vigor. And of course, the most divine of the divine traits, their greatest blessing of all blessings: neural communication.

A second committee determined the form and delivery system. Yet another committee assigned planets and species to the available space vessels. And another to assign individual Ktak to the spaceships – compatibility is never a given. And the Administrative Committee would never be forgotten nor surpassed for having the vision and approving the funding for the most ambitious project ever: The Project.

The DNA virus was perfected and readied for distribution. Vessels spread out across the galaxy to bless all the lesser species with a soupçon of Ktak. A grand celebration – the grandest ever – was held the day the distribution was complete. Glorious visions were exchanged of the species that were improved. Speculation about the possible futures of all their children was put forth verbally.

Now all they had to do was wait, so they could begin Phase 2: Introduce themselves to their semi-related children. Just wait, which they did for three hundred thousand years.

Time changes us all. Even the glorious Ktak, perfection personified. By the time Phase 2 was to begin, very few Ktak still had the ambition or interest to pursue the follow-up. Those three dozen or so who were interested fanned out to the aforementioned planets. A couple of planets had met an unfortunate end. Several species had shown remarkable technological progress; several showed no progress; most clustered in the middle. Sigh. A bell curve. An ordinary bell curve. The Ktak had hoped for better results, so they would not have to wait any longer. They had begun to realize that time was not their friend.

In addition to accepting the disappointing results, there was one specific challenge Phase 2 needed to meet. Of all the species they had infected – no, no, not infected, blessed – with their DNA, only one clearly had the ability to communicate neurally. And Rrannimm, the planet where that species lives, was going to meet an unfortunate end within a few generations. Rrannimm was shortly to enter an area of the galaxy chock-full of asteroids and other debris. Good-bye Rrannimmese. They were among those species at the wrong side of the bell curve; they could not possibly find a solution in time, if ever.

If not for the neural communication, Rrannimm could fall into a black hole for all the Ktak cared. Ktak were not cursed with either of the twin faults of sentimentality and compassion. But the neural communication – that was special. That was the essence of what set the Ktak apart and above all others, that and self-love. Oh, and pride. So how to guarantee the Rrannimmese would survive long enough to come to deserve this special blessing?

Not since Phase I of The Project had the Ktak engaged in such lively debate, and a new committee was formed to make a plan. They called it "The Plan." Still no nuance – what did you expect?

Even the Ktak in the most glorious of their glory days never had the technology to move a star system out of the way of catastrophe, although two Ktak made the argument that this was a worthy project, despite its exorbitant expense, due to the high probability of additional technologies being developed from their efforts. This argument was rejected by the rest of the committee due to its being entirely beside the point.

Others did the math for eliminating the debris field in its entirety. The odds were better but not good enough. _Too much effort for probable eventual failure_.

What was left but to destroy each asteroid that became an actual, verifiable threat. Between the interesting math and the enormous explosions, this approach garnered support from all comers. _Who doesn't love enormous explosions! Any party poopers who don't love enormous explosions are exactly the type who love the interesting math. Win/Win! This would be fun to implement, no doubt about it. What a great idea! Design and build a system, make sure the operating power is permanently regenerating, make sure the explosive power is adequate for all asteroid shapes and sizes to be turned to dust._

\- Should the system be orbital or land-based?

 _What a great question_!

Arguments ensued for many days. Land-based won.

\- Should the system be automatic or manually controlled?

 _What a stupid question! How can you even call yourself a Ktak?_ _Quit your clacking and listen. The Rrannimmese are Stone Age. If they were forced to interact with splendid Ktak technology in order to save their miserable planet and selves, perhaps it would inspire them to achieve, stimulate their curiosity, and use their magnificent Ktak-given neural capacity for its rightful purpose: to speak glowingly of the Ktak. What a brilliant question! We bow to your superior intellect._

So the system was to be land-based, solar-powered, its innards underground and protected by that fascinating and impenetrable mineral on Reynos 3. The components were built on Ktak, shipped to Rrannimm, and installed with minimal loss of life.

The Ktak whose idea it was to have a land-based system was named Tki, and Tki it was who teleported to Rrannimm to explain the purpose of the shiny new system. Unsurprisingly, many delays had occurred with the system's design, construction and installation, so by the time Tki arrived for deployment and training, debris had already begun pelting the surface of Rrannimm with some regularity. The Rrannimmese took to their protection system like Ktak to, well, Ktak. A single Rrannimmese was in charge, and an apprentice was ready to take over when ready or needed. Tki didn't worry about how the Rrannimmese handled the process, so long as the Ktak were no longer bothered. Patience seemed to be given shorter shrift now.

In fact, time had become the enemy of the Ktak. None are immune to evolution, nor does evolution necessarily imply improvement of the species. Evolution concerns itself not with morality or ethics, but only with survival and reproduction. At some point in the next hundred thousand years of waiting for their semi-beloved children to join them on the pedestal of greatness, the Ktak mutated, one of them possessing a version of neural communication that was fatal. Fatal to the other Ktak who did not possess it, that is.

Stories, fables, myths – these are known by many species throughout the galaxy. They may or may not teach a lesson or serve as a warning; they may simply be entertaining. But the Ktak knew nothing of stories, fables or myths. Neural communication only transmitted that which was true, that which had happened. The mutation allowed the transmission of that which was false, had not, could not happen, that which was not believed, sincerely or otherwise. The mutation led to pain and torment, distrust and betrayal, and civil war.

The remaining Ktak, all of whom inherited the mutation over the course of many generations, came to live small lives in small spaces underground, below their ruined planet. The population grew smaller, their ambitions shriveled. Grandiose plans gave way to abduction of helpless specimens of primitive species to tease and terrify and torture with images and illusions. The Ktak were never nice people. They never would be. They had become petty and cruel monsters.

Many of the species they blessed so long ago have developed the very technologies the Ktak hoped they would, have formed a Federation the Ktak expected to lead, are exploring spaces perilously close to Ktak itself. The Ktak, for all their patience, ran out of time for themselves.


	2. Chapter 2

**Section 1: Prelude**

 **Chapter 1b: A Many Years Ago**

By the time another hundred thousand years had passed, only one Ktak, called Keeper by the caged specimens, ever ventures from the planet on the ancient spacecraft. She is the Keeper of the menagerie, the last Ktak to bring new specimens home, the only one to feed, hydrate, evacuate, patch and mend and heal, and study them.

Keeper's final target species is Rrannimmese. Remember them? Two hundred thousand years have passed since Tki gave them the technology and taught them to protect themselves, hoping to stimulate curiosity and advancement; in all that time the Rrannimmese have remained stubbornly stone-age. Keeper makes repeated journeys trying to isolate a young one to abduct and study, and the vaunted Ktak patience is strong in her. She successfully transports a child, a three-year-old, to her ship, and returns to Ktak.

Keeper is pleased that the child possesses the neural trait, but is not pleased at the subtle differences between Rrannimmese and Ktak children. On the other hand, she doesn't know any Ktak children. Perhaps her recollections of how children behave are inaccurate. Do they cry to be held constantly? The Rrannimmese child does. Do they climb all over the back and head of the person trying to care for them? The Rrannimmese child does. Ktak children definitely do not make sustained vocalizations rather than the lovely clicks and snaps. The Rrannimmese child tries to imitate Keeper's language, oh yes, it tries, but it also makes other unpleasant sounds, high and low, loud and soft, meaningless, horrible noise.

The child's neural communication becomes a problem. Unlike the Ktak, the Rrannimmese child is unaffected by false images, and any specimen holding it – honestly, Keeper cannot be expected to hold the thing at all times, now really – any specimen holding it is also unaffected by illusions. This makes the Rrannimmese child very boring to the other Ktak, both by itself and in company with another specimen. What good, what fun is it if it won't scream in fear and anguish. The Ktak don't maintain a zoo just for looking at exotic creatures. Keeper is advised to get rid of it.

Keeper ignores the naysayers. After all, nobody else is going out to get new and/or replacement specimens, it's always her. Always and only her.

It took only two years, but even for Keeper and her very special Ktak patience, it seemed an eternity before the child no longer needed to be carried at all times and could be kept in its own cage. It still made constant noise, but played with whatever was tossed in the cage, sometimes scraping at the walls, sometimes building little towers. It seemed clever for a primitive creature, and did pick up the language, though with appalling enunciation due to its inadequate tongue structure. It could be entertained with visions, although they had to be of actual events. It lost interest quickly in what it couldn't see, naturally. It particularly liked to watch Keeper's recollection of when she collected the child in the first place. What child doesn't love to be the star of its own show? It never sent visions that were of any interest to Keeper, how could it? Nevertheless, it was gradually becoming less of a zoo creature and more of a pet.

Keeper decided to train it, so she would have some company occasionally, and she taught the child to come, to follow, to stay, to fetch. Very helpful that last one. She also had to teach it not to bother the other creatures as they passed the cages. The child was inclined to reach in and touch – that was its nature – which led to a neural transmission, which led to irritated, snarling creatures. Keeper taught the child how to withhold its transmissions, and once it mastered the technique, the other creatures actually liked when it touched them. Very odd to Keeper, but within acceptable parameters of behavior. She even named it, honoring its arrival date and time: 716L.

When the child was six years old Keeper began its real training, what she had been waiting for. The Ktak limit of communication is 400,000 kilometers, but if training started early enough, could the limit be extended, and if so, by how much? Keeper was engaged in a project again, and it was very pleasant. Except of course, when Keeper would get out of range, and then return to find the child wailing in loneliness or fear or terror or some uninteresting emotion. Keeper would severely chide the child, extolling the virtue of patience, but the child was impervious. _Stupid child_. In any event, within a year the child was able to receive and transmit at the Ktak limit, but never improved after that. _Stupid child_.

Keeper cast about for another project. Acquire another creature? No, Keeper was too old to go gallivanting around looking for available pups and such. Besides, the Federation, that collection of semi-civilized children, grew larger and more intrusive every year. Best to stay within Ktak territory. Ah, but Ktak territory was much larger than the neural communication limit. Perhaps she could resume that avenue of inquiry with the child, but this time by involving DNA insertion, as her ancestors had done half a million years ago. Keeper had no particular expertise in DNA modification, but why should that matter? It was only a creature, a specimen, at most a pet. It wouldn't mind. It was placid and playful. It would enjoy the experiment, Keeper was certain. If it died, well then it might have to be replaced, but that was not worth thinking about.

Keeper planned and designed the procedure, and performed it, operating on the child when it was ten. Much to her surprise, the child did seem to mind after all. It clearly did not enjoy the experiment, and stopped playing and interacting with the other creatures. Even when allowed into their cages, it curled into a ball and didn't move. Keeper remembered distinctly that it had learned restraint with its neural communication, but now its slightest touch produced not just irritated and snarling creatures, but also biting creatures, far worse than before. It had some sort of film over its eyes, though Keeper had never seen it before and was sure she had done nothing to the visual system to cause such a reaction. Really quite sure _. Stupid child_.

Keeper had almost run out of patience when the child finally started to recover some of its old habits and its eyes cleared. She resumed training it, and was delighted – no, proud, triumphant – when the child's transmission and reception range far exceeded the normal range. In fact, Keeper was never out of range no matter how far or fast she traveled.

Of course Keeper boasted of her achievement to the other Ktak. Were they impressed? Were they astonished? Were they even respectful? They were not. _What good is that? Does it chew off its own leg? Does it copulate with its food dish? No and no. Where's the fun in shouting 'Hello out there' to a beast? You have lost all perspective, your sense of humor! We have said for years, find and bring back some new creatures. We are bored with the ones that are left. We need others. Stop wasting your time on foolish tricks_.

Keeper actually becomes disgruntled, perhaps even cynical. When did the Ktak become so cruel and dull? Okay, they've always been cruel, there's no denying that, but when did they become so relentlessly, unremittingly dull? Time was when Keeper would have been revered, admired for an accomplishment such as this, and accomplished all by herself too. Now they care not a hoot. The Ktak are reduced to yelling, "Get off my lawn!" to the spaceships that occasionally pass. Metaphorically speaking. There are no lawns on Ktak.

More years passed, but only a few, when Keeper experienced a sudden panic. She looked at the Rrannimmese child one day and could not recall its name. Was she getting old? She could not remember that either. Two hundred years? Three? No it could not be three hundred; she would certainly remember an occasion of that magnitude. Or would she?

She asked the child, and of course the child knew its name and told her gladly, even cheerfully. _Dear pet. Always cheerful and pleasant. Unlike those other_ … oh never mind. Let's skip the pity party and move on to Keeper's last project: Sending 716L, her dear little pet, back to Rrannimm. It was the least she could do before she died. Possibly it was the most she could do. Why does her mind keep wandering like this? Is it remorse? Impossible! Just the stimulation of a new project is all.

The child must be taught the ways of the worlds beyond Ktak, no matter how pathetic and pointless. Concepts like family and food-gathering, education and governance. It already knows about status and rank, boy oh boy, does it ever know those concepts. There is just one problem: that list – family, food gathering, education, governance, rank – that's all Keeper knows about the ways of the world, and she learned it on Ktak. She suspects that may not be enough.

Keeper brings the child aboard the last of the working space vessels. First she shows it the planet Ktak, in all its barren, rock-strewn glory. The child, bless its heart, thinks Ktak is beautiful. It loves rocks. Keeper directs its attention to the stars, everywhere stars. The child is frightened by the vastness, yes, but mostly is frightened by its realization that Keeper is planning to send it away from the only home it knows.

Of course Keeper brushes off the child's fears. You were expecting compassion? We have already established that compassion is not in the Ktak nature. Patience still is somewhat in their nature, however, and Keeper patiently works with the child for three more years, telling it to listen far to other creatures' activities, visualize the concepts to Keeper, and heed her elaborate explanations about things of which she knows nothing. The child's confidence, never strong to begin with in this venture, wobbles and falls down.

Keeper is not entirely useless. She is able to discuss knowledgeably the concept of learning a language, just in case the child encounters someone who does not speak Ktak. It's inconceivable to the child, and yet Keeper said it could happen so it applies itself.

She teaches it the limited ways it can operate the vessel, which is responsive to verbal orders in Ktak but unfortunately not by someone with the severe speech deficit the child has. Which brings the child to its next awful realization: It will never be able to direct the ship to its native planet. No Ktak, no Rrannimm. So where? We all know Keeper's reaction to that question: _What does it matter? You go where you go. That is where you will be_.

She warns it not to ever let anyone know about her neural communication ability. This she emphasizes over all else. _If they know what you can do, they will kidnap you and use you for their own purposes._ Keeper knows all about this.

The big day comes: Escape from Ktak! Keeper and the child, its eyes filmy again, enter the vessel, together one last time, for one brief moment. The final lessons are personal:

 _Uh, what's your name again?_

 _716L._

 _Yes, 716L, you were three years old when you came to Ktak, and you are now sixteen years old in the Federation calendar. That is practically full grown by their laws, so you should experience independence and self-reliance, if not immediately, then very soon._

 _I don't want to. I want to stay here._

 _No. Now although we don't care about gender on Ktak, many cultures do, so you should know you are female, like me._

 _Are you my mother?_

 _Certainly not! You know how to take the ship out of Warp, and when you do meet another vessel, tell me again what you are to say._

 _I come in peace._

 _The immediate danger. Remember?_

 _When I am to be transported to another ship, first make them move the ship far from my own. My ship will self-destruct as soon as it is empty._

 _The greatest danger. My warning?_

 _Never, ever, ever reveal my neural communication. Ever._

 _Here are some extra gowns and some clean underwear. Farewell. Stay linked to me so we are never lonely._

What was that? Did Keeper express sentiment? Impossible! There must be a misunderstanding.

Keeper exited the ship. Was there ever a space voyage more likely to end in tragedy? Sometimes, as luck will have it, luck will have it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Section 1: Prelude**

 **Chapter 1c: (I Want to) Fly Away**

716L, the Rrannimmese child now known to be a girl, carefully carried out the duties Keeper had taught her. Let the vessel plot random courses for a measurable period of time, then press the combination of keys that will bring it out of warp. Use other instruments to scan the area. Is anybody there? No? Restart the random courses.

716L is feeling a bit more optimistic. Nothing has exploded yet. Every time she brings the ship out of warp, the star fields are different, which is fascinating and demands an answer. The primary reason the Rrannimmese are still in the stone age, although she has no way of knowing this, is that they are notoriously (to the Ktak) uncurious. They have no innate sense of wonder. Yet when presented with an idea, problem or conjecture, the Rrannimmese run with it like a dog with a stolen turkey leg. 716L is exactly like the rest of her kind, and follows her nature.

She presses her face against the window, memorizes the star patterns, tries to identify where she is in relation to where she was each time she comes out of warp. Of course she can't. She doesn't have the math, the data, or any other applicable skills to make such an assessment. But she keeps running with it because she is sure that turkey leg is gonna taste great eventually.

Keeper is ever present in her head, so that 716L has heard the blaming and reproach from the other Ktak when they learn what has happened to their last working space vessel. She worries about Keeper's safety until one of the Ktak points out that they never went anywhere anyway, so what difference does it make. This argument carries the day, and the kerfuffle is over.

Suddenly, oh! The vessel is out of warp, and another ship is detected. She engages the instruments for communication, takes a deep breath, and says, "Tk kahkah tittahk." ( _There. I come in peace. Sounded good, didn't it, Keeper? Yes, perfect._ )

An incomprehensible babble is coming loudly through the communicator, the people on the other ship speaking and saying … what? 716L says a second time, "Tk kahkah tittahk." The babble grows louder. 716L stays calm (another characteristic of the Rrannimmese – if she only knew) and instinctively listens to the chatter in their heads, associating it with the noises she is hearing. She starts echoing back sounds that are made when certain thoughts are formed, and says, in Ferengi, "What language izzat. Wait. What izzit saying. Izzit speaking Ferengi?" She makes up her own phrases: "Speaking Ferengi. Wait." Then she hears: "Yes. It's not making hostile movement." She echoes, "Not hostile." This back-and-forth continues long enough for the Ferengi to be reassured, and for 716L to pull out handfuls of her hair, but luckily not long enough for a Ferengi to whine, "Stop saying what I'm saying!"

Her syntax is tortured, and her vocabulary is limited, but eventually 716L manages to communicate that she is alone, that she needs to be taken to a planet with people, and that her ship will blow up the moment she leaves, so the Ferengi should move well away. ( _Good pet_ , Keeper encourages her.)

The potential loss of a free vessel is cause for a vicious argument among the Ferengi. "She's lying." "We should at least be careful." "If it doesn't blow up, I was the first to talk to her so it's mine." "You have no claim." And blah, blah, blah. It reminds 716L of the Ktak fights, lots of blah, blah, blah, leading to the most obvious choice in the first place.

The Ferengi move their ship to the limit of their transporter, then beam her aboard their vessel. She watches on a screen as her last physical link to Ktak, other than the gowns and the underwear, disappears in a great globe of light and sparks.

The Ferengi are keenly disappointed at the loss of their booty, and surround her to appraise her. They see what appears to be a small child, perhaps seven or eight years old, elfin ears, olive skin, purple eyes, and long, unkempt red hair with a white streak at her right temple, another white streak at the back of her head, barefoot, wearing a diaphanous gown, and carrying additional clothing but no other belongings.

Meanwhile, 716L appraises the Ferengi. They are about the same height as the Ktak, but stockier. Their ears are enormous, and their teeth are wondrous. She would love to touch the teeth, but assumes she would have the same problem she had back on Ktak with the other creatures after her operation: irritation, snarling, biting. She really doesn't want to be bitten by those teeth, wondrous though they may be. So she restrains herself. Their clothing is elaborate, including head ornamentation, so she almost doesn't notice they are as bald as the Ktak. They stare at each other in silence for a moment. Then the famous Ferengi bickering begins anew.

"She's a child!" "I'm not taking the blame for this!" "Is she a runaway?" "Are you sure there was no one else aboard?" "Did she steal that ship? Kid, did you steal that ship!" "Bolarus IX is the closest Federation planet. I say we dump her there." "We could dump her right here. Nobody would know." "Shut up." "Bolarus is four days out of the way!" "Shut up." "Well, she's not eating my rations. Get rid of her as fast as we can."

716L actually enjoys the spat. The words flow over her, and she finds she can match the concepts to those words more and more easily. She also realizes that there are many concepts that remain unspoken, some really nasty stuff, and she files away the idea that, unlike the Ktak, the people here don't say everything they think, and that's a goodness. Huh.

As she expected, the Ferengi decide to take her to Bolarus IX immediately, attempt to trade there and make some profit on their detour, then resume their travels.

The trip will take two days, so the lowest-ranking Ferengi ( _Keeper, you were right! Rank is important here too! Of course I was right_.) finds accommodations and a small ration of food and water. Shortly after, 716L becomes aware of pain in her lower body, and clutches it.

"Hey, kid, you look like you're really holding it in. Do you need to use the head?"

"Need to use the head. I need to use the head."

She's getting better at this, and her confidence grows right up to the moment when she is escorted to the head. What is she supposed to do with that? Her confidence deserts her, and she appeals to the Ferengi.

"Holding it in."

"What's the matter with you, kid? Did you grow up in a cave?"

"Yes."

"Funny. Let me get the wife. She's non-sentient but at least she knows how to use a head."

The female Ferengi is voiceless, even inside 716L's head, and demonstrates without embarrassment. 716L watches closely and does the same. This is the most interesting day of her life so far. ( _Keeper, are you seeing this? Hmph. The Ktak way is far more efficient. But I like that I get to choose when._ )

The two days pass quickly, 716L soaking up language eagerly, hungrily. The Ferengi never bother to ask her name, which is a relief because she is not sure she can translate it from the Ktak. She may have to come up with another. They keep calling her "Kid." Maybe she should just choose that as a name. ( _Keeper,_ w _hat do you think of that? Kid. You could call yourself "Kut," but it doesn't commemorate anything, like your real name does. You're sweet, Keeper. No, I am not, I just prefer the name I selected. So do I, but I'm not on Ktak anymore._ )


	4. Chapter 4

**Section 1: Prelude**

 **Chapter 1d: The Slave(s) of Duty**

The Ferengi ship goes into orbit around Bolarus IX, and explanations and negotiations ensue. Not to mention complications, confusion, and outright suspicion. A bunch of traders arrive with a seven-year-old child? Ferengi pride is wrapped up in Ferengi profit. What are the Bolians to think? What would anybody think?

Bolian pride is wrapped up in Bolian conscientiousness and sense of duty. With the support of the Federation bureaucracy, and over the protests of the Ferengi, the Bolians examine the Ferengi ship's log. They are forced to concede that yes, objectively, it is clear a vessel of unknown origin and configuration dropped out of warp in the neighborhood of the Ferengi ship; the ship's scans detected a single life form aboard, and the unknown vessel exploded as soon as its single passenger debarked.

The traders are allowed, reluctantly, to go on their way, still bickering among themselves, but they would have done that regardless of the delay. It is their nature.

As for the child, the Bolians have a duty to her as well. She is physically examined, inside and out: blood is drawn, stool sampled, urine collected, body scanned, brain scanned, saliva swabbed. She is mentally examined, upside and down: where is she from, what is her native tongue, how did she come to be on that ship, what is her name, her age?

The physical data, taken altogether, reveal a previously un-cataloged species. The doctors and exo-biologists dutifully fill out all the forms and file all the test results. The chief medical officer has the privilege of naming the new species. Such an honor! Her species' Linnaean name is temporarily dubbed Solitaire Uniqueum – one of a kind, basically – until more of her kind can be found and a better, more species-specific name derived.

Chances are, even when more of her kind are found, they will want to keep this Linnaean name, which is really pretty terrific. Bolians have the reputation for being plodders, but boy, oh boy, do they ever love their Linné. Actually, species across the galaxy vie among themselves and with each other for naming rights to honor family, friends, lovers, pantole composers, anybody and everybody. Who would have imagined that an eighteenth century Swede's naming conventions would have 24th century intra-galactic legs?

When 716L is told about this name, she immediately wants it for herself, throwing "Kid" right under the bus, as it were. Or weren't – nobody travels by bus any more. Although the paperwork required for a name change is onerous, the Bolians agree happily to jump through the hoops. They really like the name too, and want it out there, rather than moldering in a closet.

They are far less enthusiastic about the hoop-jumping a few years later, when 716L – that is, Solitaire – wants Uniqueum for her middle name, Anon for her last name. Solitaire had been reading the Bolian version of Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, and learned that Anon means unknown, which she thinks goes perfectly with the rest of her name, plus she doesn't like having a No-Middle-Initial kind of name. She is delighted with her new name, "Solitaire U. Anon," but the Bolians are naturally disappointed that the Uniqueum will be reduced to a mere "U." Doesn't do it justice, they grumble, but it is Solitaire's right, so they dutifully acquiesce.

Keeper is completely opposed to the renaming. ( _I like my new name. It's a real name, not like 716L. That's what you'd call one of the drawers to a filing cabinet, not a person. Hmph. 716L commemorated … I know what it commemorated. You could have called me "Happy Day" or "Great Blessing," people do that too in commemoration. Not 716L. Hmph. Ungrateful. I shall always call you 716L. Suit yourself, Keeper_.) Keeper is opposed to the first renaming, that is. She does not live long enough to oppose the second renaming.

So the physical data is nicely wrapped up, if worthless except as the source of her name. She likes the gloves that the doctors wear to examine her; they prevent direct contact that would lead to the irritation and the snarling and the biting. She asks for a pair of her own, and is condescendingly given a pair. She never takes them off. Well, except to wash them. She isn't disgusting, just an uncontrollable telepath.

Problems arise in trying to make sense of her mental examinations. So many specialties, so little time. That's not true. So many specialties, so much time! Psychologists, anthropologists, educators, translators, linguists, administrators, a regular circle jerk of zoo keepers, each trying earnestly to contribute dutifully to her welfare, each in his or her fashion.

Let's start with the translators. When she was brought to Bolarus IX, the intake official heard her speaking Ferengi to the Ferengi. The child was obviously not Ferengi, yet spoke the language. Nobody speaks Ferengi except for Ferengi, and they only speak it to other Ferengi. The Ferengi traders spoke Federation Standard to the Bolians, like everybody else.

While the Ferengi argued with the Bolians about how the child came to be with them, she was silent, understandably, but as the dust settled she responded to questions in Federation Standard, although still with tortured syntax, and with some words spoken with a Ferengi accent, others with a Bolian accent. Hence, the translators call in the linguists: how many languages does this child speak, and from whom did she learn them?

This pass-the-buck you-deal-with-it approach continues for Solitaire's entire time on Bolarus IX, twelve years in all. The psychologists coax her life story out of her (not her whole story – she never mentions neural communication), then reject it as an elaborate fantasy by an imaginative child, created to mask the obvious trauma of losing her parents.

The educators read the report of this creative but tormented child, and cannot square it with the unimaginative, placid child they work with every day. "Solitaire is restless during readings of Bolian myths, but rapt when books are nonfiction, especially about geology, which is unusual for such a young child. She also loves music, which perhaps will help her to be more creative."

Yes, Teacher Rixx has told Solitaire that the noises she makes that Keeper thought were so horrible are called Singing, and that they are a part of something called Music. Teacher Rixx has given Solitaire a gift, a passion, an outlet, a refuge, a calling for the rest of her life. Solitaire thinks she is the luckiest person in the galaxy, though some may disagree.

The pursuit of music led to another life-long passion for Solitaire: ancient two-dimensional movies. Listening to soundtracks inspired her to watch the 2Ds from which the songs came. Her experience with 2Ds is vastly different from her experience with literature, because for the first forty or fifty movies, she believes she is watching an actual event, similar to the visuals shared by the Ktak. How wonderful are the Terrans, she thinks, breaking into song at the least excuse, just as I do, and always having orchestral accompaniment wherever they go. How I would love living on Terra!

Eventually the day comes when she is stunned to realize that the sailor on leave in New York, the artist in Paris, the hunter in Scotland, and the actor in Hollywood are all the same man. How is this possible? She takes a break from movies for many days, pondering this contradiction, and researching the problem. It is fiction, exactly like the books she despises! Ah-hah, the difference is that someone has visualized the story, something she is unable to do for herself! As long as someone else does the work, fiction is great! She returns to the 2Ds with gusto, no longer limiting herself to musicals. Too bad she cannot share her insight with Keeper.

Oh right, Keeper's death. This event occurs at the two-year mark. Not without notice ( _I am old and unwell, 716L, and I will die soon. Don't do that, Keeper. I have already euthanized the remaining specimens. Don't leave me, Keeper. I must and I will. We all die. Please don't leave me. I love you, Keeper. I know you do; it is your nature. Don't leave me!_ ), but no less traumatic, the worst since the operation eight years earlier.

Overnight, Keeper is not in Solitaire's head, and just like that, Solitaire has to learn a new way of existence. For all her life, she has been in direct neural communication with someone, her fellow Rrannimmese for the first three years before Keeper stole her away, and all the years since with Keeper herself. Now she must find a way to feel linked with only indirect contact.

In theory the Bolian people were always near her, she knew that intellectually, but now she has to sense them – no, that's not right – accept their presence, and allow – no, again, wrong word – force herself to be content with that. Solitaire has been able to force herself to be content with many unpleasant – no, wrong word again – terrible aspects of her surroundings.

After losing Keeper, however, she is so distraught and unsettled for so long that her teachers notice, sending her back again to counselors to whom she cannot confide.

Still, the undeniable Bolian kindness (wrapped in dutifulness) that was shown to her, in noticing her distress and sending her to counselors, gives Solitaire the motivation to adjust her outlook. No one is in her head exactly, but when she tries, she can catch the whoosh of people, faint as the ocean heard in a seashell, which she accepts as enough for her. And accepting the presence of distant Bolian minds turns out to be reassuring, in its way, and the first step on the path to be Bolian, just like everyone around her. Except for the skin, and the ears, and the physique, and, well, lots of stuff that really doesn't matter to her state of mind. Solitaire is reasonably content.

Friendships still don't come easily, and never will. Most of the problem is that in spending fifteen years in constant contact with Keeper, she had no need to learn how to be a social creature; now that she must do so, she works at it, works hard at it, but even with the guidance of teachers and counselors, she has very limited success. Fifteen years with a Ktak in your head could stunt anybody's personal growth, let's face it.

The other difficulty, of course, is spending her days with children nine years younger than she. On Ktak Solitaire was the only child of any species, and never experienced the teasing, carelessness, and jealousies of her peers. The low point was when the brat Ginnifra pinched her ear, hard, and, due to the uncontrollable neural communication, all her Bolian classmates, plus the teacher, and especially Ginnifra, felt the sharp pain. Solitaire cried out, as did most of the affected Bolians, especially Ginnifra. Teacher suspended Ginnifra for three days; Solitaire took to wearing her hair always to conceal her pointed ears and remove the temptation. Years later, she learns the meaning, though not the word itself, of schadenfreude, when Ginnifra fails the psych tests to enter Starfleet Academy.

The Bolian years are drawing to a close. Every two years Solitaire has been put through the battery of physical exams, whose results are dutifully filed. After the first four years she has learned how to get through the barrage of mental exams, whose results had been dutifully ignored, by simply agreeing with the premise that her story is pretty fantastic and impossible to believe. Certainly sounds made-up, yes it does. The psychologists are much happier with these answers.

She has taught herself to play keyboard, listens incessantly to music of all types from all parts of the galaxy; her favorite is an ancient Terran named Bach, whose insights enable her to understand and love music from all cultures. She has become literate, although she never will read a book for pleasure, and her study technique is to read once and memorize everything, so she doesn't have to go back and read the material a second time. For most of us, this is not an option, but it is apparently attributable to her brain structure, still a mystery to the Bolians, and a continuing source of frustration to Solitaire. She has finally reached sexual maturity at age twenty-five, such that she had the unusual experience of having reached mental maturity prior to puberty. Would that we all could manage that.

A year and a half before graduation from Bolian preparatory school, which for Bolians is at age twenty, Solitaire decides she wants to joins Starfleet. The most interesting geological work is being done on planetary explorations, and that's what she wants to do and where she wants to be.

Not being an actual Bolian, she doesn't meet the Citizen of the Federation requirement, but Teacher Rixx again steps up to find a Bolian Starfleet officer who, upon meeting Solitaire, agrees to sponsor her and submits her name for application to the Academy.

The academic exams are grueling, but she passes with high marks. The psychological screening is baffling; obviously no viable candidate can be a homicidal maniac, but every candidate must fall within the "normal bounds" of his or her species. Solitaire is the only one of her species, so every trait, every gift, every quirk, every flaw by definition is normal, and she passes. And finally, Starfleet administrators promote the model that at least one member of every known non-primitive species has qualified to join Starfleet. There you have it. She is going to attend Starfleet Academy.

So here we are, after 500,028 years, in the present time, prepared to follow Solitaire U. Anon to infinity and beyond. Well, to the Academy, anyway, and then beyond.

Before we go Beyond, however, let me alert you to my absence for the next little bit of the story. Solitaire Anon and Janay Andersen need no help from a narrator, AKA moi, to chronicle their meet-up. I'll return in Chapter 2b. Try not to miss me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Section 2: The Academy**

 **Chapter 2a: Girls Just Wanna Have Fun**

Cadet Anon stares at the RA, whose face is split almost in two by the enormous yawn he is unable to suppress. Nevertheless, he manages to call the class together smartly.

"All right, Second Years, listen up. You made it through First Year, congratulations. Now your real Starfleet education begins. The Fourth Year assigned to you will escort you around your dorm, stations, the gym, administration, mess hall, and any other important places for your Section. Report back to your dorm no later than1500 hours to unpack. There'll be inspection at 1600 hours. At ease."

Whether a line was formed by alphabetical order or by height, Anon always stands at one end of it or the other. In this case, the line is alphabetical, and she observes the giant at the head of the Fourth Year line loping towards her. Must be another "A" name, or maybe a "B.". But not a giant, actually. Just under1.8 meters tall compared to Anon's just over 1.5 meters, but not technically a giant, no. Almond eyes, shoulder-length straight black hair, scary-strong hands, one of which is clasping hers and shaking vigorously.

"Good morning, Cadet! I'm Janay Andersen, also a Cadet but, ooh, a 4th year. I'm Geology, you're Geology, and I promise good times, good times at the Geo lab and beyond! Why am I saying that? 'And beyond!' Why does everyone say that? How did that tradition get started? Never mind, let's get acquainted – oh, need to pee?"

Once again on meeting a new person, Anon's kidneys leapt into action. "Um, hello, I'm Soli Anon, nice to meet you. Yes, desperately! I think it's nerves."

"Pshaw, you'll do great, Soli. Bathrooms this way." They head down the hall at a brisk pace, Anon struggling to keep up with Andersen, finally breaking into a trot. "Shared bathrooms, not like home, huh? Takes some getting used to, but a private bedroom anyway, which is better than First Years get."

Anon replies carefully, "Oh, I'm used to it. Never had a private anything, so even just a private bedroom is really nice."

Andersen hardly pauses for a breath. "Here we are. The lav. The loo. The facilities. The WC. Tell me what you call it, and I can tell where you're from. I'm a Dane-Korean in case you were wondering. Lots of people do. So what do you call it?"

"The first word I learned for it was 'head.' Which eventually I realized is weird, because it's for the opposite of your head."

Andersen snorts. "True. Never thought of that. But that's not fair you already call it the head. I was gonna tell you that's what you'll call it in the future. Plus now I don't know where you're from. Oh, well. I'll figure it out. Lovely facility isn't it? Bleh."

"No, no, it's nice. Be right out."

"So I think we should hit the boring places first," Andersen calls out, leaning against the wall casually. "Admin, Mess, get them over with, and then go to the cool places, Physical Training – you know, PT, the gym – and the Geo lab – our lab – then tool around the dorm and meet people, I show you my quarters, you show me yours, are we good?"

By this time Anon is washing her hands. "Okay. Sounds nice."

"Nice, nice, nice. Everything is nice with you," Andersen complains. "C'mon, jump in or jump out, Soli."

Anon looks at Andersen, then away. "I just don't want to say the wrong thing."

Another amused snort from Andersen. "If I worried about that, I'd never say anything. Just say it. If you feel bad afterwards, it was the wrong thing and you apologize. If you don't feel bad, well, it was the right thing and it had to be said. Either way, just say it."

"All right then. I think I can do that," and Anon plasters a faux smile on her face.

"Better. A bit. Go, go, go!" Andersen takes off at full speed, catching Anon by surprise. She hesitates only briefly before racing after her escort.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Andersen races through "the boring places," and doesn't slow until they reach the gym, which is teeming with cadets. The self-defense ring has a number of nude men practicing with each other, fitness machines are all in use, and unfamiliar equipment fills every space. Anon is stunned, open-mouthed, recalling the gyms on Bolarus IX and the one she had to use previously for the First Years' Physical Training.

"Geezum, this place is huge!"

"Every section has its own PT requirements," Andersen explains. "Ours is the best, 'cause field geo is so out-of-doors. We have to do the cardio and strength, kill me now. But we get to use the climbing wall, which is amazing, and the creepy-crawly, and the balance spheres, come see."

Anon looks doubtfully at the heaps of artificial boulders. "These are not spheres." A dozen or more stacks of "rocks" of varying shapes and sizes, at varying distances apart.

"Neither are most rocks," counters Andersen. "These are more like cairns, rock piles. I call this mountain goat training myself." She steps up on one, lightly leaps to another, then to another. "It's easy without a pack. Carrying fifteen kilos of gear, not so easy. You can use your hands if you have to. Just don't fall off."

Anon climbs onto a cairn, jumps to another and grabs at it awkwardly as she slides down the side, barking her palms.

"You'll get training and lots of practice, not to worry, Andersen consoles her. "Let's look at the creepy-crawly." Anon crouches down to get a better angle. "See," Andersen points out. "Narrow passages, low ceilings, turn you into a creepy, crawly lizard. Hence the nickname. For skittering through caves and mines. It seems small looking in the end of it, but it goes basically from one side of the climbing wall to the other, almost all the way around the perimeter of the gym. You're not dressed to try this, so don't. It is filthy. Just like a real cave."

"I should feel right at home," Anon muses. "I grew up in a cave."

"Yah, of course you did," Andersen goes on. "My fave coming up – the climbing wall, over here." She extends her arm to touch a rough, gray surface affectionately. Anon puts her head back to see the top of the wall, and can't be sure that there is a top.

"How high is this thing?"

"Ten meters. But be warned: it can be set to rotate vertically so you can practice climbing for freaking ever. See the hot button? Check it out." Andersen slaps at a red button.

Anon starts. "What just happened?"

"The route changed," Andersen explains. "It's never the same twice. Safety feature is that you can't change it if someone is climbing. Haptic or something? Anyway, look closely and you see crevices and long stretches in between some obvious grips. I would spend my whole session on the wall if they let me. I just love it, feeling for the different textures, and I forget about everything else. These other controls set the difficulty level, and whether it's rotating and by how much. What are you doing?"

Anon has walked up to the wall and spread-eagled herself against it, eyes closed. "Yes. This." She inhales deeply, and her tongue flicks over the surface.

"Well, that's a new one." Andersen joins Anon. "What do you smell? What does it taste like?"

"I don't recognize the smell of the wall itself, but there are a lot of biochemical markers. Mostly sweat. That's what it tastes like, too – salt and other minerals. A couple from species I haven't learned yet." Anon, remaining pressed against the wall, edges along its width. She cracks her head on an outcropping at one point, eliciting a mild "Ow," but she continues. When she reaches the end, she opens her eyes, acknowledging Andersen. "It smells like lubrication at the crease here. It's well-maintained, even if it never gets scrubbed down."

Andersen frowns in confusion. "How can you possibly do that?" She presses her face against the wall, sniffs a few times, then inhales with all her might. "I don't smell anything."

"Close your eyes, and plug up at least one ear, so you don't get distracted by other inputs." Anon hasn't otherwise changed position, but her attention is now focused on the other woman's efforts. Andersen obeys the instruction, sniffs delicately, and extends her tongue in a slow sweep of the wall.

A disembodied voice wafts across the gym. "Hey, Janay, if you're giving out tongue jobs, let it be me!"

"In your dreams, Kiwi," Andersen hollers back, then inhales slowly once more. "That was fascinating, Soli. I definitely tasted sweat on the wall, and then I could smell it, too. You're right." She opens her eyes, to find Anon stiffly erect and blinking rapidly.

"I'm sorry you got teased about that," Anon mutters. "I wasn't thinking about everybody else here. I got carried away. I know it's weird."

"Weird and wild and wonderful," Andersen reassures her. "What teasing? You mean the Kiwi? Peter? He's a friend, just joshing. You'll meet him later; he's great! The Kiwi-Dane-Korean mix – good times.

"Sounds like a cookie." Anon attempts a smile.

"Exactly! Delicious!" Andersen throws her arms open. "Fortify, girl! Friendship and fun are our best weapons against the terrors of the black vacuum of space."

"I'm not afraid of space. I'm only afraid of being alone." Anon's mouth clamps shut, and she resumes absently stroking the wall.

"You've found the perfect place then. You're never alone in Starfleet. Especially if you're so into the sights, sounds, smells, and tastes of a gazillion people in a sardine can. Come on, let's hit the lab."

"Not yet, please." Anon slaps the wall decisively, then pulls off her gloves and leggings, takes off her shoes, and climbs up four meters.

Andersen watches attentively. "You should know that if you wreck your uniform, you have to mend and clean it yourself." Anon's climb has stalled. "First lesson: you have to look before you climb. Plan a route. See? You've run out of holds. Have to back down. And you will fall. Everybody falls their first time descending. Stupid gravity always wins. And you really don't want to go barefoot. Oops." Anon indeed falls. Andersen offers her hand but Anon refuses the assistance.

"Wait. Let me try again." Anon paces back and forth, looking up, assessing possible climbing routes. She pauses, chooses a different starting point, and climbs to the top. "Yah!" She presses herself against the wall, looking down and around. "Now how do I get down?" She sings, "Carefully. Carefully. Careful. L-Y."

"Let me get the net out for you." Andersen pulls down a lever, and a landing net emerges from the wall. "Okay, now try your descent."

Anon picks her way down, but once again falls well before she reaches the bottom, landing safely if clumsily in the net. "Geezum."

"Fabulous! Bow for your admirers, Soli!" teases Andersen. "We're not outfitted right now, but we can come back later with proper shoes and gloves if you want. Like I said, you can't climb barefoot, and you can't use those gloves you're wearing. Why are you wearing gloves, anyway? Do you always wear them? Do you have some contagious skin condition? Are you germ-phobic?"

Anon is putting herself together, gloves, leggings, shoes. "Yes. No. Later. Can we go to lab now?"

"Definitely. I'm always nosy by the way. You can just tell me to MYOB. I won't be offended. But I will keep asking until you tell," Andersen adds helpfully. "So it saves time just to tell right away."

"I said I will talk about it," Anon protests. "Just later. You are irresistible, I'm thinking. What is this thing?" She caresses a what appears to be a tree, one of several in a widely-spaced cluster. Touching it reveals its structure also to be artificial.

"Okay I lied," Andersen admits. "Actually the best Section is Biology, 'cause they get to do all our stuff, plus tree climbing. It's hard to pay attention to your own PT when they're on the move." They exit the gym, walking through the halls to the Geology Lab. "All the field sciences have a real good ol' time in PT. The hydro specialties don't get to do all the climbing, but you should see them on the water. Can you swim? Everybody is expected to swim at least a little, but the hydro people, wow. Boating, swimming, rafting. It scares me to watch and I'm a good swimmer."

"I'm not," Anon confides. "I only just started as a First Year. I have to pass a major test next year, right?"

"Yah, but don't worry about it now. Everything will be great. I'm sure all you'll need is a little practice." Andersen's breezy confidence is reassuring, but not contagious.

"Probably. I'm more worried about the pulmo-cardio. I can barely finish the course in the max allowed time. I practiced and practiced that stupid course, more than any other First Year, and I still was the worst."

Andersen pauses at a doorway. "Hey, passing is passing. You know, Soli, people absolutely love you when you're the worst at something. Makes them feel better about themselves. Here we are. The Geo Lab." They enter and walk towards a set of drawers, cabinets, and tables.

"Do I really have my own set of tools?" inquires Anon. "I hated scrounging in Geo 101."

"Yah, you have your own tools, your own station. See your name? All yours."

Anon opens a drawer, takes out a pick, a hammer, runs her hands along the handles, the tips. "All mine."

"They're pretty crappy. You have to be a Fifth Year to get the good stuff."

"I don't mind," Anon murmurs, still caressing the handles. "This is what I dreamed of."

Andersen grins at Anon. "You are so funny! Dreaming of … I was gonna ask later, but I can't wait. What made you want to be a geologist? You don't have to tell me now. But like I said, I'll keep asking."

Anon shakes her head, smiling back. "I believe you. I told you I was raised in a cave. You can say, 'yah, sure, right,' but it's true. I love the look, the feel of rocks, the strength, the solidity, the colors, the textures, the variety. And okay, weird me, I love the smell and taste, too. When I found out there was such a thing as geology, that was what I wanted to do. I guess I'm a rock head. So, your turn: what made you a geologist?"

Andersen hoots. "Oh my god, if you're a rock head, I think I must be a block head!"

"Pleased to meet you, Block Head."

"Likewise I'm sure, Rock Head. Anyway, my first and last passion is sculpture, and I've always been fascinated by how few kinds of rocks people have been able to chip into meaningful shapes, through history, you know, and how unique the effects of those different rocks are when you're done with the sculpture. A block of marble or granite, red or white or gray or green, connect with its character, chip away with great skill and a good eye, and you have a living being."

Anon's brow is furrowed. "I don't understand. I'm sorry. You clearly feel very strongly about this."

"Yah, I do. When we're done in the lab, we can go to my quarters and I'll show-and-tell you My Art. Unlike the great sculptors, I don't have great skill and a good eye, I just love to do it. So, here's the materials file. To sign out anything you have to …"

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

The orientation completed at last, they amble down the hall back to the dorm. Andersen can walk fast or she can talk fast, but not both simultaneously. Right now she is enthusing while Anon listens.

"So like I was saying, I do geology, and sculpture is my hobby. Plus with Geo I get my greedy hands on some non-traditional rocks, to shape and see what happens. Sometimes a piece, sometimes rubble. Sometimes both! But two years of art school showed me I'm just not good enough. Even so, my mater was disappointed I didn't pursue it."

"Ooh, can you tell me about your family? I love to hear family stories."

"Well, there's Mater and Pater, a sister and two brothers. My parents had a boy, then adopted a girl, then adopted a boy, then had me."

"What are their names?"

"The oldest is Victor, my sister is Nakiman, and my other brother is Reuben. I've pestered Mater for years to tell me whether I was a whoops, but she never says so. I'll keep pestering her because, well, that's what I do and because I think I was an accident."

Anon smiles. "Lucky accident for me. I'm glad you're my mentor or orienter or whatever."

"Escort. I …" Andersen looks at Anon with obvious pleasure. "That's the sweetest thing anybody ever said to me. Thank you! Although, if you were a guy, I'd have to say, 'That's premature. You haven't even seen me naked yet.'" Anon collapses in laughter. "I can't say that to you 'cause I don't roll that way. Do you?"

"No, no. I didn't mean anything like that. I'm just so glad you're here."

"Okay, then. In a couple of minutes, I'll start to introduce you around the upperclassmen. The ones I like anyway. The OCS guys. Pffft. They are so full of themselves. And anyway I'd never want to date them because it sets you up for high rank versus low rank complications. So I stick with my peers for friends and sex. Like Peter – good friend, good sex when we both want to. You can do what you want; I'm just telling you which ones I'll be introducing you to.

Lots of singles, lots of fun. You're adorable – those purple eyes, and they'll love those ears." As she speaks, Andersen reaches to touch Anon's ear. Anon jerks back.

"No don't touch."

"Here we are back at that question you didn't want to answer before. See? What's up with the no-touch zone?"

"Not phobic, Janay. Just – bad things happen if I get touched when I don't expect it, all right? Hang on, let me get ready." Anon takes and releases a large breath, then another, and assumes a thousand-yard stare. "Okay, you can touch my ear."

"Damn, never mind. It's kind of anticlimactic after all that fuss. What bad thing will happen?"

"I couldn't say, Janay. It just is."

"Then so it is." Andersen takes Anon's hand, kisses the gloved fingertips, and makes the fingertips touch Anon's forehead. "No bad things can happen now, Soli."

Anon kisses her own fingertips, and touches Andersen's forehead. "Thanks."

Andersen stops before a door, and codes it to open. "Here's my quarters, Rock Head. Welcome."

Andersen and Anon enter the room, the highlight of which is a low table with a changing cast of holos of sculptures. Each one is projected for 10 seconds, then is switched out with another. Some are familiar, some not. Anon immediately goes to the table and reaches to touch the first one, not realizing at first that it's a holo.

"Oh! So this is what you mean by sculpture?"

"Well, yah," replies Andersen. "You really didn't know?"

"I was raised in a cave. No, I didn't know."

Andersen looks at Anon curiously. "You keep saying that. You aren't joking?"

"No." Anon has suddenly developed a compelling interest in the holo display, the walls of the room, anything but Andersen's gaze. "Not joking."

Andersen considers this information while she watches Anon not looking at her. Quietly she says, "Soli, let's sit." She sprawls on the floor next to the display table, and Anon carefully follows suit. "Tell me about your family."

"I don't have one."

"Lots of people feel estranged from their families sometimes," encourages Andersen. "You'll get past it, I'm sure."

"I don't have a family." Andersen starts to speak, but Anon finally faces her and holds up her hand. "Janay, you know how First Years have to attend all those cultural and social and historical classes?"

"God, yes. It was endless."

"The premise is that for most cadets, the first time they'll be living with a lot of different species is at the Academy, right?"

"Yah, so be open, welcoming, curious, accepting, on and on and on."

"Well, I already knew that," Anon continues. "Because I had already lived with a bunch of different species. I never talked about it. I've never talked about it. I always kept to myself, listened to my music, did my class work, PT, watched 2D movies, listened to more music. At the end of the year, I received a very poor report from the Psych counselor. He said I had to socialize or I'd never graduate from the Academy."

"Very true," Andersen confirms. "Starfleet is more than lab work and physical training. I love it. Most people here are wicked cool. That's why I want you to meet my friends."

"Anyway, I thought over what he said." She holds up her hand again, and again Andersen waits. A flood of words is undammed. "Except for useless doctors and counselors, I haven't talked about my life since I first found the Federation. I still am not ever going to start the conversation, but I have decided to just tell people about me if they ask. I'm going to accept myself the way I'm supposed to accept everybody else. If they don't believe me or think I'm crazy, fine. But I'm not going to agree to a fake story any more just to fit in. They have their stories. You have yours. I have mine."

"So tell me your story, Soli Anon." Andersen is unfazed. It is her nature.

As she did earlier, Anon takes a deep breath and releases it. Her hands are clenched, white-knuckled, and Andersen almost grasps them in an attempt at comfort, when Anon finally starts speaking. "I was abducted from my home planet when I was three. Brought to live on the planet Ktak, basically to be one of the creatures, the specimens in their menagerie."

"Um, I can see why you might not want to share this."

"I know, right? The Ktak lived … still live underground. In caves and in chambers they hollowed out. I didn't know there was such a thing as a planet for years, when the Keeper took me out to see. It was eerie, beautiful, and really upsetting."

"Keeper? As in zoo keeper? Okay. Go on." Andersen's previously expressive face is composed.

"Keeper eventually decided to help me leave, to escape Ktak. She was very old and thought I might not survive after she died. None of the other Ktak took any part in zoo keeping."

Andersen can no longer remain impassive. "I'm feeling sick, here. What about the other creatures? She didn't care about them? What was special about you? Other than the obvious." She smiles affectionately at Anon, reaches across the gap between them and squeezes Anon's hands in her own.

"I couldn't say. But she helped me get away, I was found by some Ferengi eventually, who took me to the nearest Federation planet, Bolarus. Bolarus IX."

"Did you tell them your story? Wait, did you even know the language?"

"I learned the language and tried to tell them my story. They thought it was a childish fantasy, and didn't know what to do with me. They did DNA testing, and mine didn't match any typed species. So basically they made up their own story about me, with huge holes in it but they preferred it to mine. Finally, I gave up and went along with it."

Andersen mulls this over. "No DNA match. To anybody? That must feel really isolating."

"Yah, sometimes. But really, Janay, it's okay mostly. I'm used to it."

Andersen squeezes Anon's hands a second time, and releases them. "I wonder whether it's still like that. Have you checked your records?"

"Why would I do that? I know who I am."

Andersen shakes her head. "That's not what I mean. Everybody looks themselves up just for giggles. What's your species?"

"My species? It's … well, it's Solitaire Uniqueum. That's where I got my name from."

"Love it! What a great name! Computer, display data on species Solitaire Uniqueum."

On the ceiling appears a page of data, with two pix of Anon, one from shortly after her arrival on Bolarus IX, the other her Starfleet application photo. Andersen, leaning back on her elbows to view the page, starts laughing again.

"Look at that! 'Juvenile female. Adult female.' And they're both you! What is that, a picture of your brain? With jibber-jabber about convolutions and density. Wowie-zowie, the adult female sleeps only two hours a night. Blah-yah-blah about the scientists who 'discovered' you. You know, there's more info on the Bolians who typed your DNA and came up with your name than there is on you! They were just trying to fill up the data sheet so it'd seem like they performed more research than they actually did. Not that I'm criticizing. Been there, done that. Anyway, it seems they haven't found any more of you yet."

Anon studies the near-empty page, but shows no sign of disappointment. "The date on the brain scan is my fifth one. I've had another since then." She shrugs. "Oh well. I'm not surprised. I am glad you showed this to me. Now I'll know where to check back in case anybody ever finds something new. Meanwhile, I'm just going with whatever happens."

Andersen straightens up, and appraises Anon. "Here's another question. How did you ever pass the Psych screen for Starfleet? Wouldn't they think you were … you know."

"You can say it. Crazy. It sounds crazy, I know it. I'm guessing they figured out I'm not violent or murderous, which is Number One for passing the Psych screen. And the questions were boilerplate. I don't think they ran anything by the Bolian counselors who knew what I had told them about my background. But the main thing is, they don't have anyone else of my species to compare me to. So I am by definition average, and I passed. That's my theory, anyway."

"I hate to tell you, but I'm having trouble believing all this myself." Andersen is frowning. "I'm not saying you're lying, but it's hard to take in. I'm sorry."

"I understand. But, Janay, it's why I know so little about stuff other people take for granted. If you think to yourself, 'she grew up in a cave,' maybe you won't think I'm so stupid.

Andersen rallies to her defense. "You're in Starfleet Academy. They don't admit stupid."

Anon scrambles to her feet and starts pacing. Andersen will quickly learn that pacing is Anon's default stress mode. "I can't prove any of this, but why should I have to. You don't have to prove to me that you have a sister and two brothers. I just believe you. So to get back to where this started, I never heard of sculpture, what do you expect, I grew up in a cave."

Andersen smiles, and stands gracefully. She brushes off her pants. "You know, I like that. A lot. Let Janay expose you to all the wonders of the galaxy, my little cave dweller. I will be your escort and your guide."

"Thank you. I will be your loyal follower. Now, where is Your Art? You said you'd show me."

Andersen waves her hand. "Behind this curtain." Anon looks at her suspiciously. "No really. Behind the curtain."

Anon had previously not noticed the curtain, and now realizes that it cuts the room almost in half, a room that otherwise is the same size as her own. She pulls the curtain back. "Look at all this stuff!" Sculptures large and small are crowded on shelves to the ceiling. Boxes of clay & stones. Tools on a workbench. Dust everywhere. "You made these? From rocks?"

"Or clay," Andersen added. "These are my favorites, but they really aren't very good."

"Are you kidding?" Anon leans in closely and scrutinizes the sculpture collection. "I think this is wicked awesome."

"No. Definitely not. Wait a minute. Look at this." Andersen stops the random show on the holo projector, and selects one to project: Michaelangelo's _Pieta_. "This is my favorite sculpture ever. It's made of marble and it's called the Pieta. There are lots of Pietas that have been made, but this is my fave. It always makes me want to cry."

Anon reaches her hand out to touch, but pauses as she remembers it's just a holo. "Yes. Me too. Who are they? The man looks dead. The woman. The look on her face. She's …"

"Bereft," says Andersen. "Her name was Mary. The man was her son, her first-born. His name was Jesus, and he was a political prisoner who was tortured and executed."

"And now she's holding him," finishes Anon. "Remembering when he was her little baby, but he's gone. Oh …"

"Exactly. I think of my mater, and what would happen to her if one of her kids was killed. She'd never get over it. Just like Mary, bereft, holding Jesus. What's the matter with your eyes?" Andersen has noticed that Anon's third eyelid has filmed over her eyes.

"Nothing's the matter with my eyes. It's normal for my species." Andersen leans in closer for a better look and explains further, "I don't make tears when I'm upset. I have this third eyelid thing that covers my eyes, like I'm in danger and need protection or something. Don't worry, it'll go away." Even as Anon speaks, the membrane is withdrawing. "I got upset thinking about your mother when you were talking about how she'd feel if you … you know."

Andersen nods. "I know. It's okay. But we were talking about sculpture so let's get back to it. Really great sculpture." She waves toward the holo again. "This is one of a thousand reasons I know I'm just a hobbyist when it comes to sculpture. Michaelangelo's _Pieta_."

" _Pieta_ ," muses Anon. "There's a lovely aria by Fauré called _Pie Jesu_. Actually, a lot of songs called _Pie Jesu_. Fauré's is just my, my fave. I wonder if they're about the same thing."

"Pee-aye-tah. Pee-aye-yay-zu. Pretty close. How does the song go?"

Anon sings the last iteration of the Soprano aria from the Fauré _Requiem_. "Pie Jesu Domine. Dona eis requiem. Sempiternam requiem."

"Oh Soli. That sounds just like the _Pieta_. I mean, it feels like how it looks. I mean, I don't know what I mean. It's heartbreaking. It's beautiful."

"I know. I just love it, even though it always makes me feel – what did you call it? – bereft."

"What are the words?" Andersen demands.

Anon shrugs. "I haven't a clue. I love the music so I sing the lyrics, but I don't know what they mean. Just how the music makes me feel."

Andersen is shocked. "Didn't you ever look them up?"

Anon is equally shocked. "No, why would I? It wouldn't change anything about how I feel. Anyway, it's too hard."

Andersen throws up her hands. "No it's not! I'll look it up. How can you not want to know?"

"I am barely literate in Federation Standard," Anon retorts. "Forget it for all the other languages. And anyway, I just don't care."

"I care!" Despite herself, Andersen guffaws. "How do you spell it, Rock Head? Pee-aye-what?"

"Pee-aye-yay-zu. I have no idea how it's spelled. It sounded a bit like Pieta, otherwise I wouldn't have mentioned it."

"Never mind. Computer. Pee-aye-yay-zu by … "

"Fauré."

"So you know the somebody's name but that's all. Amazing. Computer: Pee-aye-yay-zu by For-ay. Translation of lyrics."

Anon has become defensive. "It's not 'somebody.' It's the composer. It's really important!"

The computer's calm voice settles the women. "Working. Lyrics are in Church Latin. Dead language. Translation: Blessed Lord Jesus. Grant us eternal rest."

Andersen crows. "Hah! Did you hear that? There is a Jesus in there. Pieta – you know, the name of the statue – means mercy, and in your song they're talking about being blessed. Mercy and blessing – awfully close. The statue and the song have to be talking about the same guy!"

"And eternal rest sounds a lot like death," Anon chimes in. "What an odd way of talking. But what about his mother? None of the lyrics mention Mary. And looking at her in the statue is what breaks my heart. Which the aria does too. Oh! Janay! Do you think she's supposed to be the one singing the _Pie Jesu_?"

Andersen abruptly steps into the work area, rummaging in the boxes. "I don't know. I have to do something. Let me get some clay." She grabs a lump of soft clay, and slaps it on the workbench. "Sing it again, Soli."

Anon sings the _Pie Jesu_ , this time in its entirety, while Andersen works the clay. When the aria is done, Andersen smashes the clay back into a mound. "Again, again." Anon begins to sing, again.

Time passes unheeded. Not until the bells sound for 1500 hours do the women return to the world of the Academy. Anon stops in the middle of the aria, shakes her head and rubs her temples. She surveys the scene before her. A dozen representations in various stages of completion, two _Pietas_ , abstract sculptures, a suffering man, a despondent woman, and Andersen elbow-deep in clay detritus.

"Dammit," fumes Andersen. "We're late. I'm sorry, Soli. We're supposed to be back at your quarters by now, and you have only an hour to unpack and get everything shipshape. I'll help you." She scoots over to a bowl filled with grayish water and rinses off most of the dust. "And I didn't introduce you around like I promised."

"It's my fault," Anon insists. "My responsibility. I completely lost track of time. This was incredible. Can we do it again sometime?"

"Oh yah." Andersen shakes her hands to dry them. "Singing and sculpture. I never knew. We have to do this again. And again. Let's match up our schedules."

"Yah, but we do have to get going. Late makes me nervous. I can't mess up on Day 1."

Andersen embraces her. "What a day! What a perfectly miraculous day!" She grabs Anon's gloved hand with her still-wet one, and begins to run from the room, to the hall, towards Anon's quarters. "I'm the lucky one, little sister! Can I call you that? I've always wanted to have a little sister. Can you be mine? I'll take you home on breaks, tell my mater to adopt you if you like. What do you say?"

Anon is all but breathless, trying to keep up. "Joy unbounded, Janay. My sister. Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death!"

Andersen skids to a stop. "That's fantastic! Did you just make that up?"

"No, it's from a 2D. One of my very faves that's not a musical."

Andersen chortles with delight. "Very faves! I have no idea what you're talking about, but I'm in. I ain't no sucker!" They take off running again, holding hands.


	6. Chapter 6

**Section 2: The Academy**

 **Chapter 2b: I Wish**

Hello, again, it's your narrator. I promised I'd be back, now that they have been introduced to each other. But we need to move on, lest we never get to the Beyond part of this tale due to spending too much time at Starfleet Academy. Lord knows there are plenty of School Daze stories in the galaxy. This is not one of them.

Still, it might be worth it to share a little bit more about Solitaire Anon's remaining Academy years. It's worth it to your narrator anyway, which you probably knew was coming. I'll be brief, so as not to slow the momentum.

To begin, let's summarize, boys and girls, two things we learned after First Day of Academy Year Two: 1) Anon is still picking up words on the fly, over-using and misusing them, pronouncing them exactly as she hears them. You thought she'd get better about that? You thought wrong. And B) As mentioned in Chapter 1d, Anon will never have an easy time making friends; however, Andersen could make friends with a coffee table, and in my opinion already did. Her coffee table is pleased and proud, in its own inanimate way, to be the center of attention in her dorm room. Andersen makes friends the way the rest of us breathe – autonomously. It is her nature. You thought that's why the Powers That Be assigned her to be Anon's escort? You thought right. Lucky little Rrannimmese.

The rest of the sharing of the five remaining Academy years consists of just a few events.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Andersen and Anon made the most of their three years at the Academy together. Their "Sing & Sculpt" sessions continued, Andersen learning to shape her art from deep within herself, Anon agreeing to translate lyrics in seeking the greater meaning of her best-loved music. These were among the most fulfilling and joyful times of their lives.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Anon taught Andersen how to speak Ktak, poorly. Imagine hearing about a rainbow from the perspective of color-blindness. Andersen's Ktak was even more deformed than Anon's, but they could make out each other's meaning, and practiced Ktak cursing late into the night. (So many Ktak curses – it was an art form for that nasty species.) More than once, Andersen was enjoying the build-up to a terrific rant about some perceived injustice, and Anon would utterly disarm her by announcing, very seriously, "Cht-ti-t Kch Puttuk. Tk kahkah tittahk." (My name is 716L. I come in peace.) After she recovered from the ensuing hysterics, Andersen avenged herself, aiming at Anon some of that rude cursing they had practiced so carefully. (Those curses will go un-translated here. And there is no glossary at the end, so don't bother looking.)

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

They learned a bit more about characteristics of Anon's species. They already knew that Anon only slept for a two hours at most during the night, and that her body demanded that it be approximately the same two hours every night. It was Andersen, however, who learned that Anon's sleep was something more than sleep. Anon took demerits when she did not respond to an emergency evacuation drill during her sleep period in Second Year. A couple of years later, when the drill happened again while she slept, Andersen went to Anon's room to try to wake her. Failing that, Andersen finally resorted to carrying her out, but too late to avoid demerits for both of them.

"Soli, I really think this should go in your records. I've looked it up. So far as I can tell, every species in the Federation has a sleep cycle, which I think is very interesting all on its own. Why should that be? But you are the only one I ever heard of who can't be awakened at all. It's like a sleep disorder. That has to be one of your species traits, don't you think? Which makes it a new entry for your pathetic listing."

"A sleep disorder? Janay, no, I hate that stupid listing, and I refuse to have anything to do with it, especially something like that. Last time I checked, all they did was replace the sixth brain scan with the seventh. Pathetic is right. Maybe someday Starfleet will find my home planet, and then we'll have so much information we can redo the whole data sheet. Until then, forget it. Oh, and don't get started on the third eyelid thing again. If nobody noticed for twelve years, it doesn't deserve to be there either."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Like many species, Anon was unaffected by rhinoviruses, but she was as susceptible to influenza viruses as any Terran. Of course, nobody knew that until she caught it for the first time; naturally it came at the worst possible moment for a student.

Flu was rampaging through the school as she was trying to finish up a difficult lab assignment. When she came down with it, the fever and pain slowed her to almost complete inadequacy. Her professor noticed her physical distress in lab, and came over to suggest she go to infirmary, whether or not she had finished with her assignment. Anon refused, insisting she was perfectly fine to carry on. This is what she does still. Always. Her experience on Bolarus IX had made her positively phobic regarding any and all medical care.

The professor put the back of his hand on her forehead in the classic You're Burning Up Maneuver, and all hell broke loose. Her fever and aches and pains and exhaustion were immediately transmitted to him and all the other cadets, in her lab and in several adjoining classrooms, exactly as in the Ginnifra incident on Bolarus IX.

This time the truth came out for sure, right? Not so Boston. Anon jerked her head back so hard she lost her balance and stumbled into the counter behind her. The collision jolted the equipment of the person working at that counter, and said person yelped in horror.

In the ensuing chaos the professor lost track of what had actually happened. rereading the whole mess as being caused by flu symptoms so severe that Anon was about to pass out. No longer a suggestion, he gave an order that she get herself to infirmary.

In no wise was Anon going to see a doctor simply because she was sick. She got herself to her dorm room instead, finished her assignment remotely, drank plenty of fluids, took a cold sponge bath to bring down her fever, and generally self-treated.

Once she felt better, she finally went to infirmary, saw a nurse, received TLC instructions, and somehow managed to convince her professor that she technically had obeyed his direct order, albeit not immediately, and deserved only minimal if any demerits on her record. She took just one.

Protecting her neural communication secret had overcome its toughest test yet, and gave her confidence that it would be ever thus.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

As an immortal, I, your Narrator, have always (and I do mean always) been puzzled by how much misery mortals put themselves through. As they say, life is short (for mortals, let me emphasize, not for my kind), so why not try to be happy? I bring this up because Anon and Andersen, for all the good times they shared, still occasionally managed to conjure up some wretchedness. The worst example of this took place at the Academy at the beginning of Anon's third year:

Anon and Andersen had watched a Musical 2D, rather dark as musicals go, full of self-sacrifice and tragedy. They lingered in Andersen's room, drinking juice (Anon) and Saurian brandy (Andersen), and discussing the meaning of sacrifice. Andersen, having imbibed way too much brandy, made the following observation:

"You know, Soli, maybe Keeper didn't kidnap you. Maybe she rescued you. Maybe your parents were going to sacrifice you to some god or another, and Keeper saved you. Then she saved you again when she sent you out and you found the Ferengis and the Bolians. Wouldn't that be amazing?"

Anon did not respond. She sat motionless, then stood and said, "I have to do something," and walked to the door.

Andersen called out, "Gotta pee? You can use my bathroom, you know. Want me to refill your carafe?"

Again, Anon did not respond, silently exiting Andersen's room. Andersen idly swirled the splash of juice at the bottom of Anon's carafe, then took another swig of the brandy. After some time had passed (she was too blotto to know how much), she scrawled a note informing Anon that she was going to the lounge for a refill and would be back soon.

Returning with a full carafe, she puzzled over Anon's continued absence. But only for a moment. Andersen was rightfully known as the kindest person in the galaxy (Okay, there were many candidates for that honor; Andersen was merely in the top twenty), and she realized upon reflection that she had made the most horrible, thoughtless, hurtful remark of her life.

First, she poured the remaining contents of the brandy bottle into the sink; following that, she vomited the contents of her stomach, rinsed her mouth, wiped down her face, wept profusely, wiped her face again, and went in search of her friend.

Anon was not in the shared bathrooms. She had not been to the gym – Andersen checked the access logs to be certain.

She had apparently been in the Geo lab for a time, as her station was uncharacteristically strewn with debris, and a bottle of a harsh solvent had shattered upon being dropped, the liquid barely wiped dry, the glass shards not properly disposed of. A set of Anon's gloves with bloodstains and burn marks lay in the basin. Would she have gone to the infirmary? No, of course not. Andersen checks further and discovers bandage wrappers in the trash, and the usual spare pair of gloves is not in its usual place. Self-treatment and departure. Okay.

Finally Andersen went to Anon's room, and after repeated tapping on the door and calling Anon's name, she coded it open and entered. The nighttime lighting from the hall scarcely penetrated; the room was apparently empty, and Andersen decided to wait there until Anon returned.

Just as she was settling herself upon Anon's tabletop, she spotted a lonely figure crouched in a corner. Andersen burst into tears again as she recognized Anon, curled in fetal position, oblivious to Andersen's presence. She approached, and enveloped the little cadet in her long, strong arms.

At first there was no response, then Anon flailed her limbs wildly in a startled reaction to emerging from a deep meditative state.

"Shh, shh, shh," Andersen murmured. "Soli, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. That was a terrible thing to say about your parents. I'm so sorry." Her apologies turned into sobs as she wept again, unable to stop.

"Shh, shh, shh." Anon embraced Andersen, stroking her friend's head. "It's okay, Janay. Don't cry. It's okay."

"No, it's not. Your parents loved you. They would never sacrifice you for anything. You were stolen away from them. They will never stop searching for you. How could I say such an awful thing?" Andersen is beside herself, and Anon hugs her tighter.

"Shh, shh, shh. You were trying to make me feel better about Keeper. I know. The awful part isn't that you said it. The awful part is that you could be right. I have no way of knowing. I was trying to remember exactly what she showed me, I mean told me about when she stole me, but I can't tell the difference between what she believed and what was true. She was looking at me, not my parents. I'll never know, Janay. I love you more than anyone in the galaxy. Please don't cry."

Actually, the awful part is that Andersen's speculation is exactly the sort of creative thinking Anon would never engage in, but now that the idea is in her head it will obsess her. Fortunately, Andersen doesn't know this or she would be even more blubbery.

"I'm so sorry. I'll never forgive myself. I'm so sorry."

Anon shushes her some more. "I think you're still a little drunk, Janay. You didn't mean anything hurtful."

"I poured the rest of that swill down the drain, Soli. This is the third time I've said or done something awful on a Saurian brandy tear, but it's the first time I ever hurt someone I loved because of it. Please can I shower you with kisses?"

"No!" Anon almost shoves Andersen away, then pulls her back with all her strength. "We can never touch skin-to-skin. You know that. Bad things happen."

Andersen bawls louder. "How can I make it up to you? I can't apologize enough, I can't touch you, what can I do?"

"Go visit your mater next chance you get. Shower her with kisses. She will love it. She loves you. I love you, Janay. I can forgive you anything, just like your mater. I'm your sister. Don't cry. Shh, shh, shh. When you're sober, you'll feel better."

Okay, you get the picture, right? What's the point of all this weeping and teeth-gnashing? No point whatsoever. A little drunken blah-yah-blah and two wonderful mortals are in a state of despair and disrepair. Not to mention smearing snot and saliva and other disgusting fluids all over themselves. Completely unnecessary. But that's precisely why they are so dear to me. No immortals would ever conjure up such misery for no reason, nor bother to reassure each other so endlessly. Lovely, sweet, pitiful mortals. I must wipe my symbolic tears from my metaphorical eyes. Let's continue, shall we?

The 2D private screenings quickly grew into public "Movie Nights," informed by Anon's limitless enthusiasm for the ancient 2Ds and emceed by Janay the social animal. There was no more popular down-time activity for the stressed-out cadets than Movie Night, complete with evolving traditions that would have been familiar to 20th century _Rocky Horror Picture Show_ aficionados.

Upon Andersen's graduation, Anon suggested an end to Movie Nights, but the fans wouldn't hear of it. Emcees were chosen by lottery, and their crazed unpredictability almost made up for missing Andersen's directed energy.

Even with Movie Night, the two-year hole between Andersen's graduation and her own was frequently difficult for Anon. Andersen was serving on the Enterprise, and communication between the friends was at best sporadic. Anon found herself falling back into the old pattern of isolating herself from her peers. She posted notes to herself all around her room to help remember to get out and about and to chat people up, as she had learned from Andersen, and somehow the last two years passed with only one more incident of note.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Early in Fifth Year, Anon was in lab, drilling out a core in a sedimentary rock. A few other cadets were scattered about, intent on their own projects. Anon was at that dangerous point in her education where she knew just enough to think she knew everything she needed to know. Thus she had failed to double-check how well-secured her rock sample was, and while she was putting full strength and weight behind pushing her drill bit into the sample, the rock shifted, she lost control of the drill, and she plunged the bit into her calf, slicing it deep and wide open.

The sound of the rock crashing onto the floor covered up the sound of Anon crashing onto the floor; she bit her lip bloody to keep from crying out, and the nictating membrane immediately, and oh so helpfully, blinded her.

She yanked the drill bit out of her leg, tearing muscle as she did so, and grabbed at the wound to apply pressure and try to staunch the bleeding. Under her cabinet were piles of absorbent materials, and she took them all to soak up the blood and to make a tourniquet until she could cover the wound properly.

Anyone else would have gone straight to infirmary; anyone else would not be Solitaire Anon. Her doctor phobia took over again. She wiped up the floor, nicked more towels and gauze and limped back to her room. Although her amateur first aid efforts worked after a fashion – she avoided an infection, and pulling the bandage tight across the wound allowed it to hold the skin and muscle together during the healing process – she was left with a nasty scar.

Anon took numerous demerits for missing PT entirely for two days and more demerits for failing the running part of the cardio/pulmo requirements for close to thirty days. She practiced walking in such a way as to disguise the limp, and relearned running so she could pass her PT again. Somehow Anon convinced herself it was all a success because she had avoided treatment by a doctor. However, every time she noticed the nasty scar, she thought she just might have hoist herself by her own petard. Not in so many words. The actual words she used were more like, "Soli, you are a complete idiot," and "You have to get over this stupid phobia," and words that in Ktak we have not yet translated for you, oh best beloveds, because it would be rude.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

This completes our discussion of Solitaire Anon's Academy Years, so let us now move Beyond. Well, almost Beyond. We'll hop into her final few days at Academy, and then go Beyond.


	7. Chapter 7

**Section 2: The Academy**

 **Chapter 2c: Growing Up**

The challenge of school and field work generally focused Anon's attention for the best, and now she is just days from graduation. An audio call has come in; of course it is Andersen. Never one to beat around the bush, the hey-how-are-you small talk is perfunctory, and Andersen gets right down to it.

"You still haven't heard? I recommended you fifty days ago. Are you pulling out your hair? Stop it."

Anon is pulling on her hair. She stops. "I'm so nervous. Everybody else in Geo knows where they're going."

"You'll be assigned somewhere. Don't you worry. I just want you on the Enterprise so I can be your boss and lord it over you, Bwah-hah-hah-hah-hah! Plus also too maybe because you're a fine good geologist. Maybe that."

"My boss. Wicked cool. You said you'd tell me about your promotion. Lieutenant! What did you do?"

"Lieutenant Junior Grade. But still. Only got soil samples from a Neutral Zone planet. Then distributed them to Hydro and Bio, so we could all get our greedy little hands on them."

"Nobody ever goes to the Neutral Zone. All those planets are unstudied, well, except for pix and remote measurements. How did you get samples?"

"It was kinda gross. There was an away team that landed … "

"What! You were there?"

"Yah. No. Just listen. It was an away team from the Enterprise, but not me. They did some stuff, all kinds of confusing, don't know what exactly. But, when I heard about it, I went to each of the away team members, and got them to give me their uniforms, and even their boots."

"They gave you their clothes?"

'Yah. I gave them the old Janay charm. And promised to do their laundry. So, yah, gross. I took everything to lab, and brushed and tweezed and rinsed to get every speck. Not much to work with, but even so, everybody in the section was really excited. And Mr. Spock promoted me. I think he was glad that at least some science came out of that awful mission. Captain Kirk died, you know. The blood of that a-hole Khan saved him, but still. Poor Mr. Spock thought he'd lost his best friend."

"It was so scary. A bunch of cadets quit the Academy after that."

"I was scared too. I was afraid I'd contaminate my samples from pissing myself."

Anon laughs. "I really miss you. I hope I get assigned to the Enterprise. Did you ever get anywhere with Joy Upon Their Heads Shall Be?"

"No. I need you to sing. The recording didn't work. Every piece I made looked exactly like the ones you said stunk."

"I didn't say they stunk," Anon protested. "I would never say that. They just didn't make me think of Joy Upon Their Heads Shall Be."

"Which means they stunk. You're the Sing part of Sing & Sculpt. The Sculpt part has to be true to the Sing part or why bother? We'll pick it up, and get it right."

"Yah, we will. We definitely will."

"Baby Goan Fishin' Too worked out great, though," Andersen continued. "It was my first successful mixed media – I turned it into a mobile for my nephew. My nephew, Soli! I'm an aunt! Later today, I'm going to see him and my brother and my sister-in-law that I haven't even met yet. Yay, shore leave!"

"That's so great. I met your sis-in-law over last break, and she's perfect. And they sent me pix and video of the baby. You're so lucky. You will love being an aunt."

Andersen responds in a sing-song lilt. "You can be an aunt too-oo. My parents still want to adopt you. They loved having you spend breaks with them."

"So did I. And Janay, they asked again last break about adoption. I have decided yes, I have wanted a family for all my life, and I love you and your family, they love me, Starfleet needs a next-of-kin and well, you know. I'm never going to find my birth family. I resign myself to my fate."

"Wait. Who said that? It is definitely a quote."

"The Lord Chancellor, remember? The one with the stinky 2D, but the fantastic holo? We'll watch it again. Anyway, it's too late for this year. I have no more breaks. But next year at graduation time, I'll be on Shore Leave, and we'll finally be sisters under the law, not just in our hearts."

"Don't get sappy on me, Rock Head. Unlike you, I'll start crying."

"I know. Sorry. I already told your folks. I wanted to tell you first, but you were unavailable, as they say."

"Yah, but not for much longer. And as soon as you get here, we also have to re-start Movie Night. That was so much fun. And if you'd only try, Rock Head, a great way to meet people. Your peers. The Senior Officers would never come, much less get an invite, so we don't have all that weird rank-position-power stuff going on. Just a good time. Come on!"

"Yah. I do love Movie Night. But for the movies, not, you know.

"That's my Little Sister. Just wondering whether anything had changed."

"Not that, never. Look, gotta go, and I refuse to lose hope! The Enterprise is in my future. It has to be!"

"I'm sure of it. I'll see you when you get here. Which will be soon! Later, Rock Head.

"Love ya, Block Head."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

While Anon is on pins and needles regarding her future, Captain James T. Kirk and Mr. Spock are having a similar conversation on the Enterprise. All the other positions have been filled, but they are in disagreement about the Geo lab placement.

Drumming his fingers impatiently, Kirk presses his advantage. "It's your section, Spock, but remember, you didn't want Andersen, and she worked out brilliantly. Creative, instinctive, opportunistic. You promoted her."

Spock holds his ground. "I will allow that you were right about Andersen, Captain. But Anon brings different qualities that we also need. And it was Andersen herself who pointed me in that direction."

"So, what do you like?"

"It is not a matter of 'like,'" Spock says firmly. If he were capable of emoting, Spock would have been insulted. "Objectively, Anon has the best analytical skills of any young scientist I have met."

"The best?" Kirk's skepticism is obvious. "Come on, Spock. You don't have to exaggerate to make your point."

"I am not exaggerating. Like many teams in the science section, Geology has cooperative competitions for Fifth and Sixth Years. Fourth Years are assigned to teams but only to observe and to document the team's processes. The idea is to imitate field conditions, where you may have limited tools at your disposal. The teams are a different combination of cadets each time. Eight competitions by the time they graduate. Not including the one that they document without participating."

"Sounds a lot like the Kobayashi Maru."

"Not a bit. The science competitions aim to challenge the teams to succeed under difficult conditions, not to teach a lesson about failure." Kirk could have sworn Spock was smug under his blank face. Perhaps it was in his voice.

"Okay, fine. Eight competitions. Stress for success. And …"

"And Anon was on the winning team every time. I ran the numbers, and no one in any Science department has ever been on eight winning teams."

"Luck? Cheating?"

Spock raises an eyebrow. "Neither. Cheating is impossible and pointless – there is no single right answer. As to luck, I read all the documentation. Anon never once offered an idea during the brainstorming portion. Not even when she was team leader. But …"

Kirk interrupts. "That's what I've been talking about, Spock. No evidence of creative thinking. We need that spark."

Spock responds levelly. "Not creative, no. Not curious. Those are undeniable weaknesses."

"So why are you so insistent?"

"After the brainstorming, Anon immediately chose the most promising approach that had been suggested, and laid out compelling reasons why. The team followed her analysis, and won the competition. All eight times. By her third competition, the team asked her what she thought as soon as the brainstorming session was done. It saved time. As a Sixth Year, her teams also set speed records for completion."

"Now you've got my attention. You knew you would, didn't you. Ah, but what about when she was documenting as a Fourth Year? Does that count?"

Spock leans back in his chair. "Curious that you should ask, Captain. It doesn't technically count, no, but the team she was documenting won. That may have been luck. Or nine wins if you prefer."

"All right then, Spock. Tell Starfleet we accept Cadet Anon in the Enterprise's Geo Lab."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Pandemonium rules on the Academy Quad after graduation ceremonies are completed.

Shouting and cheering, hats flying. Anon is chained arm-in-arm with the other geology majors, stomping and chanting, "We are the Stoners, Mighty, mighty Stoners!" Ah, science geeks. Make of it what you will. The chain breaks, and the new ensigns go their separate ways.

Anon sprints to her dorm room one last time for an audio chat with Andersen. In a matter of seconds they are screaming in unison.

"Soli, Soli, Soli! Woot-woot!

"Janay, Janay, Janay! Woo-hoo!"

"How does it feel to be an Ensign instead of a Cadet, little sister?"

"A-MAZE-ING!" Anon sings. "And assigned to the Enterprise with you!"

"The ace in the hole was the competitions. We had a sit-down, and Spock was all for you but the Captain was balky. I told Mr. Spock to check out the results. Eight competitions, eight wins. I knew that would carry the day with the Captain."

"Winning the competitions was fun, yah. But I was just lucky. It could happen to anyone."

"Except that it never did, Rock Head. Not in Geo, not in any of the other field sections either. Anyway, after I told him, the next day, yes! Barely in time for graduation, but who cares. Mr. Spock said new crew will board in two days. I can't hardly wait to see you!"

"Me, too, Block Head." Anon's eyes light upon a small leather case. "Did you know your parents were going to give me a new keyboard for graduation? It's a roll-up; it is perfect. I've already messaged them thanks, but I figured it was your idea, so thank you thank you thank you to you, too."

"Yah, I told them you would love it for a starship placement. Takes up zero room in your quarters."

"Just have to get used to the feel of it. That's my project for the next two days. Thank you!"

"You already said that. See you soon, Rock Head."

"Love you."


	8. Chapter 8

**Section 3: The Enterprise**

 **Chapter 3a: I Have Confidence**

Two days later, the intake process for new crew is underway. In the transporter room, all senior officers except Kirk are waiting to greet the arrivals formally, section by section, memorized patter after memorized patter. The transporter operator acts as the Emcee.

"Dr. McCoy. New doctor for Sickbay."

The transporter glows. Chenoweth is deposited. McCoy steps forward as she steps down.

A little stiffly, McCoy recites the words of greeting. "Welcome aboard, Dr. Chenoweth. I'm Dr. McCoy, Chief Medical Officer. Your belongings have already been delivered. Please allow me to escort you to Sickbay for your intake physical and to meet the other members of our team, and from there to your quarters. This evening I will escort you to a meet-and-greet to meet the remaining senior officers."

Chenoweth replies warmly with her formal response. "A pleasure to join your team, Dr. McCoy. I appreciate the opportunity. Shall we be on our way? I look forward to meeting the others."

McCoy and Chenoweth exit the transporter room, and the next section is announced.

"Mr. Spock. Five new crew for Science Section."

Again the transporter glows. Five people, including Anon, are deposited. Spock steps forward and delivers his spiel, a slight variation from that of McCoy.

"Welcome aboard, Science Crew. I'm Mr. Spock, Chief Science Officer and Number 1. Your belongings have already been delivered. Please allow me to escort you to your quarters where you shall unpack your belongings. Then you are to report to Sickbay for your intake physicals. When you all have completed that, I shall escort you to the Science Section to meet the other members of your team. This evening your immediate superior will escort you to a meet-and-greet to meet the remaining senior officers."

Spock exits, followed by the new crew, and the process continues.

"Commander Scott. Six new crew for Engineering."

 **#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#**

Nurse Chapel is alone in Sickbay when an unfamiliar blue shirt enters. She looks up to see Anon.

"Hi. I mean, greetings. I mean, I don't know. I'm Ensign Solitaire Anon, reporting for my intake physical."

A bit puzzled, Chapel rises and answers, "Hello, Ensign. I'm Nurse Chapel. You're a bit early. Dr. McCoy is not scheduled to start the physicals for another twenty minutes. You should have checked the schedule." She looks Anon up and down, notes the erect posture, clenched fists, and rapidly blinking eyes, not meeting her own.

Anon replies with a self-assurance belied by her tics, "I did check the schedule. That's why I'm here now. I'm ready for my physical."

"You don't understand. Dr. McCoy will return shortly. Then he can perform the intake physical."

"You don't understand," Anon pleads. "I have a … problem with doctors, and I chose this time for the intake physical because there are no doctors on duty at the moment. I'm following my orders – I have to report for a physical; I don't have to be examined by a doctor. You can take all the measurements, right? Blood pressure, heart rate, blah-yah-blah …

"Of course I can. But it's expected … You should be examined by the Chief Medical Officer. You'll both be at the meet-and-greet later of course, but this is a more personal, private time." Chapel frowns. "Dr. McCoy is a … he's … he won't like this. Of course, Dr. McCoy is an outstanding doctor and researcher. I feel lucky to work with him."

"That's just great," Anon chirps. "But I'm here for my physical now, and I want you, not some doctor, to perform it."

Chapel's hands are on her hips, and her voice rises an octave. "What on earth is going on! What's the problem with waiting for a doctor? You can't not ever see a doctor!"

The torrent is released, and Anon speaks rapidly. "I realize that. I just try to avoid it. Check my records. You'll see why. Go ahead." Chapel bends over the console and pulls up Anon'[s data. "Look at my history. I'm the one of 'unknown ancestry.' My brain was found to be ridiculously dense, and to have an extra set of convolutions. See that? Of course you do. Well, I can guarantee, when Dr. McCoy, or any of your doctors, has the least excuse to see me, even for a physical, he will order another scan of my stupid big brain. I've had eight scans. Eight, Nurse Chapel. They take a huge chunk of time, they're uncomfortable, and nothing ever comes of it. And in Starfleet I can't refuse an order. If anyone ever found out my home planet, or anything at all useful, that'd be different. I wouldn't mind at all. But they never do. No scan today. Please, Nurse Chapel. Please. Just do the physical and let me out of here."

Chapel slowly looks up from her console. "Three at the Academy alone. In six years. Complete with electrodes and stims."

The rush of words has run its course. Anon mutters, "I hate feeling like a freak. I just want to do my job, live my life. Please. There's no standing order to have the physical performed by a doctor. I checked. Please."

Chapel looks Anon up and down, with sympathy in her eyes now. "I may regret this, but you're right. I can do it. All right. Let's run through the routine."

Chapel scans to measure height and weight, take blood pressure, listen to heart and lungs; she checks reflexes, draws blood.

"Done. No doctor. This time."

Anon hops up to leave. "Thank you, thank you, Nurse Chapel."

Chapel puts her hand on Anon's arm. "Wait. Two questions. First, why the gloves?"

Anon hesitates, takes two deep breaths, then answers in a suspiciously casual manner. "Not just gloves – neck and lower legs too. I … sometimes have difficulty with skin-to-skin contact. It should be in my records. Don't know exactly why it happens, but figured it must be my species. If I'm prepared for it, I'm fine. See? Touch my forehead." Chapel does so. "No problem," Anon smiles. She breathes deeply again. "Touch my leg." She rolls up her left pant leg, pulls down the covering.

"Not that leg."

Chapel's eyes lock onto Anon, who freezes. "What do you mean?"

"Second question: what's the scar on your right calf? Tricorder picked it up. I want to take a look." Chapel's hands are on her hips again, but this time her voice is strong and steady.

"I cut myself, years ago. It's fine. Just a scar."

Chapel doesn't budge. "It's fifteen centimeters long, Ensign. Some cut. You told me to look at your records. I did. There's nothing in there about an injury to your calf."

The jig is up, but Anon doesn't know it yet. She presses on. "I bandaged it myself, and it healed. Really it's nothing."

"Show me."

Anon knows it now. She slowly but obediently rolls up the other pant leg, pulls down the covering. "It's nothing."

Chapel examines the pink, twisted rope that is the scar on Anon's calf. "This is not nothing. When and how, exactly, did it happen?"

"Two years ago." Anon has lost but is still not surrendering. "I just cut myself. I'm fine. I passed all the PT requirements at Academy. It's fine."

Chapel shakes her head, but finally gives it up. "I'm entering it in your medical record. Dr. McCoy will decide whether to follow up. If he does …"

"I understand. No avoidance."

"No avoidance," Chapel repeats. "You can go now."

Anon pauses at the door. "Thank you, Nurse Chapel. Thank you so much."

Anon breaks into a run as soon as she is in the corridor; Chapel hears the skittering footsteps and shakes her head again. She punches keys on her console, finishing the entries just as McCoy arrives, goes to the sink, and washes up. While he is at the sink, a red shirt enters, a bit hesitantly. McCoy glances at the new crew member and remarks to Chapel, "Intake physicals. One down, eighteen to go."

Chapel corrects him. "Two down, seventeen to go."

McCoy has been drying his hands, but pauses and cocks his head. "Meaning …"

Chapel confesses, with a hint of bravado, "One of the new crew came in for her physical while you were still with your new doctor, with Dr. Chenoweth. I did the intake. It's not against orders. Just not traditional. I hope it's okay."

McCoy frowns at her. "It isn't. No, it's not strictly orders, but my personal standard is to examine every new crew. Which one was it?"

"Ensign Solitaire Anon. Science Section. Geology Lab."

McCoy's frown deepens. "Damn. That's the new species with the interesting brain. I was planning to order a scan."

Chapel bursts into uncontrollable laughter. McCoy is taken aback. Finally, she recovers. "That's exactly what she predicted you'd say! A brain scan. She nailed it! She's an odd duck, but I liked her, Doctor, and she sure had your number."

McCoy shrugs his shoulders. "So glad to be able to make your day, Chapel." He gestures at the red shirt to come over to the exam table.

 **#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#**

Having settled into her quarters, Anon is marching through the corridor with the other new science crew, behind the taciturn Spock. The newbies wait in the corridor while Spock performs introductions for the new Atmos lab crew, then it is time for her to be introduced to the Geo/Hydro Lab and crew across the corridor. There is no new Hydrology crew member, and the current Hydro staff consists of a Vulcan and a Deltan. Andersen is the Geology leader, and is bouncing impatiently while waiting for the intro ritual.

At last Spock ushers Anon into the lab. "This is Ensign Solitaire Anon. Ensign, meet the crew of the Geo/Hydro Lab. Hydro team of Lieutenant Karlten and Ensign Manniar. I believe you already know your superior on the Geo team, Lieutenant Andersen."

Andersen can't resist. "Welcome to the Enterprise Science Team, Rock Head. Let me put you in your place."

Anon twitches at the unexpected phrasing, but jumps right in. "Thanks ever so, Block Head. Back at ya."

Spock raises his eyebrow, and looks at each woman in turn. "This is obviously a breach of protocol, Andersen and Anon. Is there a tension between you? And if so, why did you recommend the Ensign, Lieutenant? Will you be unable to work together?"

Andersen grins mischievously at the First Officer, but says with as much sincerity as she can muster, "I apologize Mr. Spock. I can do it right. Welcome to the Enterprise Science Team Ensign Anon. Let me show you your station and equipment."

Anon responds properly as well. "Thank you, Lieutenant Andersen, for your kind words. Ensign Anon reporting for duty."

"Better." Spock is still scrutinizing the pair of geologists. Andersen can't hold back a chuckle.

"Mr. Spock, Anon and I studied together at Starfleet for years. We gave each other dumb nicknames because it suited us and, well, we thought it was funny. Kinda friendly? Whimsical?"

"Ah. Whimsy." Spock nods in feigned understanding. "I shall bear that in mind. Whimsy is acceptable in working relationships as long as it does not affect your work adversely."

"Not so far, sir. Not yet," Andersen reassures him.

"Very good. I shall move on now for the Bio-lab intros." Spock exits the lab briskly.

"Block Head."

"Rock Head. C'mon, Little Sister, let me show you your workstation and stuff, even though your first assignment isn't in here."

Anon's face changes from confidence to confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Oh," Andersen says casually. "Mr. Spock wants you to work with another team, a co-op science team that needs your special skill set. The co-op isn't co-opping. Your assignment is to resolve their procedural differences. You'll report directly to Mr. Spock on this one."

This clarifies nothing for Anon. "Which sciences? I mean, I loved the co-op teams at Academy, it was so interesting, but here? I'm a geo newbie – who will listen to me?"

"Mr. Spock will. You always made the best choices at Academy, Rock Head, always. You're a legend – I made sure Mr. Spock knows it. So just do that here. Then you come back to me, ha-ha. Settle down, sis. It will be fun. Allow yourself to have fun, okay? It's something you really are good at. Let's make the rounds of the lab now."

As the Geo team tours the lab, Manniar asks, "This your Movie Night partner, Janay?"

Andersen calls over her shoulder, "Spread the word. We're back in business!"

 **#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#**

Entering Andersen's quarters, the friends kick off their shoes and sprawl on the floor, what became a habit from their earliest days together. Anon looks around appraisingly.

"This looks bigger than mine."

"It is, a little. You're in the new crew area. They like to keep the newbies together for bonding purposes. They'll move you next year into permanent quarters. That's assuming you survive, ha ha ha."

"I'll survive. There's your studio."

"Yah. I mostly have been working with clay. I brought only two blocks, a marble and a Deltan sandstone, but since stone is always a one-off, I mostly do clay. I can rework it when I'm not happy with the result. Which is most of the time. More practical."

"Yah, my hobby doesn't take up any room. Easy for me."

"So, listen Rock Head. There are a few things I have to tell you, as your immediate superior."

"We have to plan Movie Nights. And Sing & Sculpt."

Andersen smiles indulgently. "Yah, we do. They'll be more erratic than at Academy, but we can do both. I'll start with that. Our workdays are very long. Ten-hour lab shifts with three breaks, and two hours in PT. I always do three or four, and trust me, you will, too. Our days off will never match up, but some of the evening times will. You live and die by your schedule. Do you want to go over it?"

"No, thanks. I'm on it. Already took advantage." Anon sounds pleased with herself.

"Oh?" Andersen still never knows what to expect from her quirky companion, but waits for it.

"Winner and still champion of the med-phobes. Checked the doctor schedules and got in when only Nurse Chapel was on duty. Had my intake with her."

"You sly dog."

Anon and Andersen sing together. "Ah, sly dog. Ah, sly dog." They burst into laughter, Andersen recovering first.

"You are a slippery one, my little sister. It won't work the next time. Enterprise is officially on skeleton crew due to Shore Leave, so you could get away with it just this once. But I'm telling you, McCoy won't like it. Everything in Sickbay is his way or no way. Such a grump. Him and Spock. Tweedle-grief and Tweedle-glum. I swear I'll get them to crack a smile someday, I haven't figured out how yet, but I will. And never assume anything about the schedules. They are revised all the time."

"Ah. Okay." Anon is now in close attention mode.

"Be sure to read the field manual that's in your quarters," Andersen continues. "Being on a ship is different from being at the Academy, and some things they don't tell you until you're on board."

"Such as …?"

"Such as why the CT2 they gave you your last physical at the Academy is only good for a hundred days, tops, and you have to go to Sickbay every ninety days for a new one. This is in the field manual, but knowing you, you'd skip over it."

"That's not true," Anon protested. "I read and memorize every word. You know that. Even when I have no clue. But what do you mean, a new CT2 every ninety days? How come?"

Andersen rearranges her limbs on the floor and assumes a more upright position. "One of the things they don't like to put in writing is Worst. Case. Scenario. If there was a catastrophe, and you were like crashed on a planet and not able to be rescued, Starfleet wants you to try to get on with living. Basically assuming that by ninety or a hundred days' time, if you're still alive and still un-rescued, you're now a colonist. Build homes, grow food, pair off, have children."

Anon also straightens up. "Whoa. Who thinks of these things?"

"Some seriously dark-minded pessimists. So anyway, the CT2 is designed to stop working after a hundred days max so you can get pregnant. You will end up seeing a doctor to replace it, it feels like constantly, no matter how phobic you are. Plus, general physicals every twenty days, plus regular sessions with ship's counselor. A starship is a tough living and working environment, physically, emotionally, socially. They try to screen out people who can't handle it before they're ever assigned, but people change, so, you know, get used to constant additional screening.

"Hm. Okay." Anon shudders, and her eyes take on a distant look. Andersen studies her near-and-dear sister's face, notes the tight jaw and worry lines, and her heart melts. She knows how Anon has struggled for the last two years. She reaches over and squeezes her hand. "Soli, the secrets you keep make your life a lot harder. You know how I feel about that. But even so, you'll be fine. You made it through Academy; you'll make it on the Enterprise." Anon looks at her friend and forces a weak smile.

"There's starship stuff that isn't in the manual because it's so taken for granted," Andersen continues. "Like always being called by your rank or your last name. Much, much, much more than at the Academy. Even on social occasions. Even by your peers. Even by me, Anon." Andersen smiles reassuringly. "That's why Spock really didn't like our fooling around with the intro today. I know it feels cold at first, but nobody means anything harsh by it."

"And then there's Shuttle Bay. The schematic tells you where it is, but you don't know what it is. It's at the farthest reach of the Enterprise, and it's used for group hook-ups."

"You're kidding."

"About sex? Moi?" Andersen replies archly. "Not this time. They have to reserve the time and they can't stay the night, but yah, they can use one of the shuttles. Nobody's quarters are big enough to accommodate more than two or three people tops, so those who want more have to go someplace. Starfleet officially pretends it doesn't know, but unofficially it wants its people … contented. Of course, if a shuttle is needed for its real purpose, they have to leave the bay immediately. A whole lot of Coitus Interruptus going on, and lots of not contented people."

Anon nods her head thoughtfully. "Well, okay, glad you let me know. So if anybody says, 'Hey want to go to the Shuttle Bay and check out my engines …'"

"Yah. Right now you're thinking it doesn't have anything to do with you."

Anon looks away, nods her head again.

"Like I said, Soli, people change. Even you. Now go on back to your quarters and get into your uniform for the meet-and-greet. I'll pick you up in a bit and escort you."

 **#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#**

In the main lounge, the meet-and-greet is underway for new cadets, their superior officers, and the senior officers. Although the attire is dress uniform, most attendees are relaxed; Spock and McCoy, predictably, are stiff and clearly wishing to be elsewhere.

Anon and Andersen are part of a larger group near Captain Kirk, awaiting an opportunity to formally introduce the newest team members to him. The geologists have almost reached the front of the line when Andersen bolts to refill her plate of hors d'oeuvres and chat up the chef and server, friends of hers, of course. Anon sighs, and tags along, eying the goodies jealously, but not willing to make the introductions even more awkward by greasing up her gloves. They rejoin the line, but now are at the end of it again. It seems like an eternity of standing and weight-shifting from one foot to the other before they finally reach the front. Andersen steps forward.

"Captain, may I present the newest member of the Geo Team, Ensign Solitaire Anon. Ensign, Captain Kirk."

"Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Sir. I mean, to join your crew." Flustered, Anon salutes, then realizes he is holding out his hand. She takes it and shakes it vigorously, then stops and lets go awkwardly.

This is not Kirk's first rodeo, and he smiles with forbearance. "Welcome to the Enterprise, Ensign. Mr. Spock spoke very highly of you, as did Lieutenant Andersen. I look forward to seeing your work."

"Thank you, sir." Anon starts to turn away, then turns back at attention.

"It's a party, Ensign." Andersen elbows her in the ribs. "You don't have to wait to be dismissed. Enjoy yourself!"

"Exactly," Kirk affirms. "Food, drinks, conversation."

"Thank you, sir."

Anon turns and walks away with Andersen, who can't suppress a grin. "That went well."

Anon moans. "Why do I always have to act like an idiot!"

"Because you were raised in a cave, of course. You're not an idiot, you're adorable." Amused, Andersen slaps her friend's shoulder. "Never mind. I've been dying to have you meet Uhura. Come on."

Anon dutifully follows Andersen, approaching Uhura as the communications officer completes another set of introductions.

"Lieutenant!" Uhura turns to Andersen, eyes twinkling, embraces her and pecks her cheek.

"I've been looking for you, Andersen."

"Allow me to introduce the newest Geo team member and my dear friend, Ensign Soli Anon. Ensign, the impossibly lovely Lieutenant Uhura." Uhura rolls her eyes.

"I'm delighted to welcome you to the Enterprise, Ensign. Lieutenant Andersen has told me so much about you." Uhura and Anon shake hands.

"Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Lieutenant Uhura."

"Lieutenant, tell the Ensign how many languages you speak."

Uhura gives Andersen the hairy eyeball, wondering where this is going, and unable to resist finding out. "I'm in Communications, Lieutenant. Of course I speak multiple languages."

"I know, I know," Andersen says impatiently. "Just tell her."

"Sixteen fluently, eleven pidgin." Uhura waits for the other shoe to drop.

"What does that mean, pidgin?" Anon in her innocence derails the banter.

"Oh, sorry," Uhura responds. "It means I understand a little, and speak even less. But I can get by."

Andersen gets back on track. "Soli, I mean, Ensign, tell the Lieutenant how many languages you speak."

Anon finally recognizes where the conversation is going. "Stop Jan … Lieutenant, you're embarrassing me. I'm nothing like Lieutenant Uhura."

"Just tell her," Andersen insists. "She'll love it."

"Well, by your lights," Anon hesitates, then dives in. "Only two fluently, thirty-six pidgin. Plus, three dead languages. But it's not the same thing, Lieutenant Uhuru. It's just song lyrics. And it's only because of Jan… Lieutenant Andersen. I knew all these lyrics, didn't know what they meant. She made me look them up so I'd know what I was singing. She was right."

"I'm always right," Andersen boasts.

Anon glances at Andersen for encouragement and adds, "Yah. It's much more fun to sing lyrics if you know what they mean."

Uhura raises her eyebrows in surprise. "You learned languages through music. You were right ..."

"Of course!" Andersen butts in again.

Uhura shushes her, and turns back to Anon. "I do love it! How did you do it, Ensign? And what sort of lyrics? Not just 'hey, baby, baby' I hope?"

Anon giggles. Now that she's on her favorite subject, she talks more confidently. "No, some are 'baby, baby,' but really the lyrics are all over the place. If I like the sound of the music, then I study the lyrics, so you never know. Most times they really aren't the kind of thing you can use in conversation."

"Depends on the conversation," counters Uhura.

"True." Anon giggles again. "I can say 'I come in peace' in both of my fluent languages plus one of the dead ones."

At that Andersen breaks up, and their private joke turns into contagious laughter all around. Uhura finally manages to get out, "I could use that in my line of work. Even in a dead language. How's that one go?"

"Veni pacem."

"Veh-nee pah-chehm," Uhura repeats, with precise pronunciation. "Very nice. It sounds like what it means. I love when that happens. This will be a lot more fun than studying manuals and audios. Could you help me get started?"

"Oh, yes, I would be honored!" Anon, excited but flustered, holds out her hand. Uhura takes it but uses the grip to draw Anon in and hug her.

"I'll check my schedule tomorrow, and we can coordinate times to work on this," Uhura promised. "I've got myself a new project."

"More work for Mother. Excellent. My job is done." Andersen salaams with a flourish.

"So that's it, Lieutenant Brat!" Uhura dope-slaps herself. "Wonderful to meet you, Ensign."

"Thank you, Lieutenant Uhura." Andersen and Anon turn away. Anon beams, appearing happy for the first time at the meet-and-greet. It lasts but a moment.

"Okay," Andersen says. "All that's left is Dr. McCoy. Let's get it over with."

Anon's face falls. "First, I have to visit the head." She smoothly turns and moves toward the door.

"Hey, Ensign." Anon barely turns her head to acknowledge Andersen and continues walking. "You're not coming back, are you."

"I might come back. I'll try." Anon has reached the door.

"No, you won't, and no, you won't," Andersen sighs. "See you in Lab tomorrow, Anon. Don't oversleep."

"Never. Good night, Lieutenant Andersen."

"Good night, Ensign Rock Head. I'm gonna stay – I've got a lot of catching up to do." Andersen bounds over to another group of blue shirts as Anon leaves.

"Hey, Andersen, rumor has it that Movie Night is starting up again! What took so long?"

"Had to wait for the Movie Maven to arrive. I'm just the emcee. Pass me the mic and the popcorn."

A second blue shirt is just as excited, and blurts out, "When, when, when?"

Andersen swaps plates with the first blue shirt, grabs an hors d'oeuvre from his plate and stuffs it in her mouth. "Mmm, thanks. Try the ones on my plate. Juchi made them – the best! Anyway. When's Movie Night? Give me a moment will you? Let the Ensign get settled in, I've got to reserve a room and arrange for the beverages and the popcorn and rice. Soon."

Dr. McCoy has stumped over to Andersen while she is engaged in the conversation, and now interrupts.

"Andersen, where's your ensign? I've been in this strait jacket for two hours, and she's the only one left. Can we get this over with? I have work to do."

Andersen delicately wipes the corners of her mouth with her fingers. "Liberate yourself, Doctor. She said she was going to the head and might come back. Which, translated, means she's out of here."

McCoy frowns. "That's twice in one day."

Andersen riffs. "Yah, I heard. It's not your fault. It's not her fault. It was just not meant to be. The doctor thing, you know. Did you know that? 'Cause that's the thing. It's not a good doctor thing, it's a bad sad doctor thing. So sad, because I'm sure you would love her if only she weren't so elusive. And devious. We all love her, right, people?" The blue shirts nod agreeably. "I say we throw a costume party. Maybe if you dressed as a slab of granite or some sheet music, she'd talk to you."

McCoy's frown has graduated to a scowl. "You're a riot, you know that, Andersen. I could give her an order to return and finish all these damn intros."

"Yes, you could," agrees Andersen. "So could Mr. Spock. So could I, and she would obey. But I'm not going to give that order. I'm willing to bet Mr. Spock won't either when he hears how she escaped. In fact, he'll be jealous he didn't think of it himself: Going to the head, might come back, I'll try."

McCoy is finally engaged and admits, "I'm jealous myself. And if she's not coming back, I'm finished here. Give her my greetings and tell her I am not pleased."

"Tell her yourself, Doctor Sir," Andersen counters. "I, on the other hand, I look after her. She is very fragile. Plus, she's my friend, my colleague, my muse, my sister. I would die for her." She destroys the solemnity of the moment with a huge grin. "I would also kill for her. Never forget that."

"I tremble with fear before the power of your massive forearms," McCoy retorts.

Andersen throws back her head and howls. "A joke! Dr. McCoy made a joke! Good on you! Yay! Let's do this again sometime! Maybe you can even smile! You were so close!" McCoy stalks off, shaking his head.


	9. Chapter 9

**Section 3: The Enterprise**

 **Chapter 3b: Dance to the Music**

Thirty-one days later, Anon has settled into her new life on the Enterprise. In the lounge, the latest Movie Night has concluded. It was a musical, and Anon is rolling up her keyboard after her pleasurable accompaniment duties. The lights are up, and both blue shirts and red shirts are milling and chatting and streaming out.

Andersen surveys the room, stretching up high on her toes. "Only the fifth Movie Night, and we're already up to 68 members! People have been starved for this, Rock Head. Meet you in the lounge for a nightcap?"

"Sure." Anon waves an automatic good-bye as Andersen exits. She pulls the case from under her chair and stuffs the keyboard into it. As she rolls her shoulders to ease her stiffness, she notices a group of four red shirts hovering. "Hi there. Um, can I … can I help you with something?"

One of the red shirts, a handsome man with bronze skin, floppy black hair, and wire-rimmed glasses atop brown eyes, apparently is the spokesperson, or perhaps the stammerer-in-chief. "Hi, Anon. You were, you were great. Again. Tonight like always. We're pretty new to Movie Night, and um, Andersen invited us even though we're Engineering, not Science, and um…"

Anon breaks in. "It's Ioyomah, right? And Groome, and Barilo, and Simbolla." She points at each in turn. "I remember Janay introducing you last time. We invite all geeks, not only our fellow science geeks. Well, Janay does anyway. I get all tongue-tied and almost never invite anyone, but, well, I'm excited that people like this stuff and, and, um, welcome." From one stammerer to another.

"You're really good with names." Ioyomah has the earnestness only an engineering geek can carry off.

"Yah. Usually." Anon looks at each engineer again to see where this is going, but that doesn't matter because it has already stopped altogether. There is a moment of awkward silence.

Ioyomah tries again. "So what I wanted to ask you, what we wanted to ask you," and he gestures to encompass the group, "was, is it possible you could have more musicians play for Movie Night? I mean, you're wonderful and all, and it's your club and all, but lots of us play instruments and would love to play with the 2Ds along with you. If that's okay."

The ice is broken, the line has been cast, and Anon is hooked. "Huh. What instruments do you play?"

Ioyomah's stammer vanishes quickly at the encouragement. "I play viola, Simbolla recorder and flute, Groome percussion – on a keyboard a lot like yours – and Barilo plays accordion."

The engineers can practically see the wheels turning in Anon's head, and share glances with each other. Anon picks it up again. "You said lots of us. How many are you thinking?"

Simbolla, freckled and cheerful, obviously more at ease than her comrades, glances at Ioyomah before she answers. "Maybe 15 or 20. It is kind of a duke's mixture and probably would be too hard to do arrangements for, but we just wanted to ask."

Anon waves the issue away. "Too hard? Not at all, I think it sounds fantastic. I wish I'd thought of it. I've never played with a band but always wanted to since I learned there was such a thing. Do you have time to go back to my quarters and work on this?"

Groome, a blond no taller than Anon, answers for the group, "Right now? Absolutely! Should we bring our instruments?"

"Yah. I'm in the newbie corridor – I'll leave my door open so you can find me."

Ioyomah is on top of everything. "I thought I heard you say you were going to meet Janay?"

"Yah, I'll message her I'm going to be late. She'll love it too, I know she will. Come on, if we're going to make ourselves into a band, we have a lot of work to do. And we need a name, right? Let's go."

 **#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#**

The last of the four red shirts arrives at Anon's quarters. She is at her console, punching away, her keyboard unrolled but ignored at present. The engineers take out their instruments, and unselfconsciously produce a few notes and other warm-ups. The yellow shirt in the room across the corridor from Anon pokes his head out and complains, "Hey! Do you mind?" Anon continues to be engrossed in her console pecking, so Barilo, a slim man with prematurely white hair and a full beard, crosses the room to close the door.

Anon still hasn't looked up. "I'll be right with you, sit or stand, whatever. I'm so excited. I finally have an excuse to use Nakai's app."

Simbolla furrows her brow. "What? Which?"

Anon finally engages with the quartet of engineers. "Sagarifuji Nakai. Only the greatest composer of the early 22nd century. Well, I think so anyway. Before she went into composition, her first and favorite instrument was the shamisen, ancient instrument, lovely sound. She tried and tried to get traditional instruments like hers into the repertoire, not just new music but new arrangements of old stuff, you know. She finally just went ahead and wrote an app to create arrangements for whatever combination of instruments you have available – it's perfect for us!

"And then, then, even better, she wrote another app for amateur musicians. When your instrument has a greater range than you can actually play, you just enter your wheelhouse, and your part will be only where you are strongest. Let's see. Barilo, accordion doesn't have a wheelhouse of notes, but look at this – what tempi are best? I don't understand. Why would that be special to accordion?

Barilo chuckled. "I know why. For those of us who can do chords forever, but stumble over the runs, the tempo is crucial. How cool. Not a problem for me – I can do whatever. I've been playing it for thirty years."

Anon feigns amazement. "Thirty years! You must have been an infant prodigy. Hey, Ioyomah, between you and Barilo I've already decided, our next Movie Musical Night is _Fiddler on the Roof_." She pats their shoulders awkwardly, smiles shyly. "So, do you have an upper range on your fiddle…"

 **#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#**

Hours later, the musicians are glassy-eyed but happy. Anon turns off her keyboard.

"Let's declare victory and withdraw. That was the most fun I've ever had playing. Thank you guys so, so much for suggesting it. And thanks, Groome, for waving your arms and nodding your head. I had no idea directing was so complicated! I'm really glad you knew what to do. I can't wait for the next Movie Musical Night!"

Groome has shut off her own keyboard and slid it into its case. "Didn't you say we needed a name?"

"True. What do you say?"

The four red shirts come up with a mishmash of names. "The Enterprise Eccentrics." "The S'Wonderfuls." "Cacophony." "Music Mixology." "Duck Tape." "Starfleet Wood Mac." As always, Anon has no contribution to make in the ideas part of the brain-storming session.

Then she speaks. "Cacophony. That's it. Perfect. Sets low expectations, so when we sound like a starship wreck – which we will sometimes, you know we will – then we can say, well, it's Cacophony. What did you expect? But when we are cooking, then we can say hell, yah, it's Cacophony! People can never be disappointed, and mostly will be charmed. Nay, thrilled!"

"I like the way you think," Simbolla enthuses. "Especially since it was my idea. Cacophony. Yes?"

A chorus of yeses in three-part harmony.

Anon takes charge. "Okay, send me your schedules and I'll try to coordinate the next practice. And tell your friends! Cacophony takes all comers. No invitation needed."

With hugs all around, Barilo, Simbolla and Groome split. Ioyomah lingers.

"That was great, Anon. I was wondering if you'd like to go to the lounge with me for a bite."

"I am starving," Anon acknowledges. "And it's too late for regular mess. Lounge sounds good."

"Can I leave my viola here? Um, I can pick it up, you know, um, after." Ioyomah's stammer has returned.

"Sure, I guess so. After what, exactly?"

"Oh. I was hoping... Maybe you'd …" Ioyomah tries again. "I'm not very good at this, but I like you Anon, and, well…"

Anon sinks to the occasion as well. "Oh, uh, you mean, like, um, a date? In the lounge?"

"Um, yes."

"I'm sorry." Anon has been caught off her guard. "I must have given the, um, the wrong impression. I almost got kicked out of the Academy for my poor, my poor, you know, social skills, and they're still pretty bad, obviously. I'm so sorry. I can't. I don't. I don't date."

"What, never?"

Anon sings, "'Well, hardly ever.' Yah, never. I can't. I'm really sorry. I like you a lot, and I hope, well, I hope we can become friends. I'm sure we can be friends. I'd like that. Is that okay?"

Ioyomah clearly doesn't know how to take this, but as an awkward engineer he has had some experience in the realm of rejection. "Sure. Okay. Let me know if you change your mind. I, um, I like you a lot, too."

Anon hugs him like a sister, to his dismay. "Thanks, Ioyomah. Let's get some eats and get better acquainted. Tell me about yourself, and also especially your family. And how did you happen upon the viola? It's not your everyday stringed instrument …"

 **#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#**

Is this great, or is this great? The answer is: This is great! Solitaire Anon is pulled into a social group due to her own efforts for the first time in her life, naturally and easily. This is great.

When Anon and Ioyomah arrive at the lounge, she glances around but there is no sign of Andersen. The other members of Cacophony wave at them and scoot over to make room in their booth. As Anon slides onto the bench, an expression of panic flits across her face: there is no Janay to ease her way. Turns out she doesn't need one.

Much later, tired but euphoric, Anon hugs her new friends goodbye. Chatter filled those hours: the music they had earlier practiced; the favorites each person wanted to include in their repertoire; their self-mocking music geek jokes – how could Anon ever catch up with their group experiences! Her years of solitude exploring music had been a bare skeleton in comparison to their rich bodies of musical communion. Plus, she has learned a music geek percussionist joke to try out on Andersen. The attentive reader will remember this joke from Chapter 1a. Look it up if you don't remember.

She finally thought of her friend when she returned to her quarters, and found a voice message waiting: "Hey, Rock Head. Don't know where you disappeared to, but I'm outta here. There's saying you'll be late, and then there's not showing up. So anyway I'm spending the night with Wey Foon because, you know, he's way fun. Did you go out with Ioyomah? I see the way he looks at you when he thinks nobody's watching. He seriously thinks you're hot. I know, I know, of course you didn't. See you in lab. Can't wait to hear about your band."

Anon sent a return message: "Janay, it's me. I messed up, I'm sorry. Hope you had fun with Foon. I have made some new friends, music geeks like me! I'm so grateful you invited some engineers to Movie Night. They're wonderful. I'll tell you about them tomo at lab."

The next day, of course Andersen busted up when she heard about Anon's band. "Cacophony! Sounds like a puddy having a hair ball attack!"

To which Anon responded, "Exactly."


	10. Chapter 10

**Section 3: The Enterprise**

 **Chapter 3c: Use Me (Up)**

Many days have passed, several missions accomplished. It's the perfect moment to remember why we should pray not to live in interesting times. A communication signal interrupts the serenity of the bridge.

Lieutenant Uhura completes the connection and listens. "Distress call from Base Station Philsox VI."

"On screen." The screen displays complete chaos. Many bodies are strewn, contorted in impossible positions, the faces on the bodies discolored and tortured. A man staggers into view on the screen. He is hunched over, and his eyes are wide and darting.

Kirk demands, "Who's the commander of this base?"

The Philsox crewman cries out, "She's dead, sir. She should never have called you. She's dead and I'm next, there's one dying and I'm next. Don't come down here, for God's sake! Get out of here!"

"Pull yourself together, man. What has happened?"

Mister Philsox speaks his last words. "Some sort of creatures, sir. They came in, no warning, no ship even. Just moving from man to man. Killing. Everybody screaming. Hurts. Can't protect ourselves. Can't stop them! Oh God!"

A wave of golden lights approaches and envelopes the man. He stiffens, hits his head with his fists, falls and screams. His face turns blue, purple, white, red.

"What the hell," Kirk swore. "Set a course for Philsox VI, Mr. Sulu. Recommendations, Mr. Spock? What are we looking at?"

"Unknown, Captain," Spock replied. "Insufficient data. Recommend a Security Away team to assess the situation and rescue any survivors."

"Make it so," ordered Kirk. "Transport any survivors directly to the Shuttle Bay. Keep whatever it was away from the rest of my crew. Dr. McCoy can meet them there and evaluate their condition. You too, Spock."

"Yes, Captain."

 **#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#**

The Enterprise shortly reaches Philsox VI. The glow of the transporter indicates the Away team of yellow shirts has arrived, led by Security Chief Victorino, and including the Vulcan Kevintek. (In some other story, he would be Crewman Number 6, and we all know what that means, but fortunately he has a name. That may save him.) The team fans out, phasers at ready, move to check each body. Victorino and Kevintek approach the man who was seen on the bridge. He is still alive and still writhing.

"Try to get his face out of the dirt," Victorino ordered. "Flip him over."

"Yes, sir." Kevintek grasps the man's shoulders, and is propelled backward several meters, landing hard.

"You all right, Kevintek?" Victorino runs to his crewman. "What happened?"

"Unknown, Commander. An attack of some kind? Or a defense mechanism. Possibly electro-magnetic." Kevintek rubs his hands and arms, trying to restore feeling and function.

The Commander opens a communication channel. "Victorino to Bridge."

"Go ahead, Vicco." It's Kirk.

"We've found one survivor so far, Captain. We can't touch him; Kevintek thinks he's surrounded by EMF. Can you send an isolation gurney? If we can't load him into it, maybe we can put it around him instead."

"Good. Wait for it." Victorino closes the channel, as Kevintek calls him over.

"Commander, look at this."

Victorino turns to see the Philsox VI man is now still and is no longer face down in the dirt. His face continues to dance with colors. His mouth opens and shuts, his lips grimace. Sounds are being produced, but there are no words, just random noise from air being forced through his vocal cords. (Spoiler alert: the next two sentences are gruesome, so try not to read them.) His body is so pretzeled that although his face is blindly staring at the sky, so are his buttocks. Blood runs out of every orifice of the Philsox VI crewman. The colors in his face stop changing. He is dead. The gurney materializes. Victorino opens his communicator.

"Victorino to Bridge."

"Go ahead, Vicco."

"The gurney arrived. It's too late. Our victim has died. Do you have further …"

The sparkling gold lights the bridge crew had seen on-screen now rise in beautiful waves out of the corpse, hold steady a moment, and enter Kevintek.

"Goddam it to hell!" VIctorino has aimed his phaser, but cannot shoot his own man. Kevintek is writhing and spiraling, beating at his face and arms.

"Vicco, report!" Kirk commands.

"It's Kevintek, Captain. He … he's infected."

"Get him in that gurney and lock it down, Vicco. Scotty, as soon as they're ready, send him to Shuttle Bay. McCoy, Spock, figure out what the hell is happening."

Victorino hesitates. "He's … Captain, in my judgment he may not survive transport."

"Got a better idea, Vicco? No? Then just do it."

 **#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#**

Spock is waiting in Shuttle Bay, tricorder at the ready. McCoy and Chapel run down the corridor towards Shuttle Bay, portable med kit across McCoy's shoulders. They arrive in Shuttle Bay, and McCoy is soon tap dancing in nervous anticipation, Chapel laying out the contents of his pack. Spock remains placid. The glow of materialization announces the arrival of the gurney. No sooner does it take shape than it bounces across the bay from the violent motion of Kevintek inside. Spock and McCoy aim their tricorders as one.

Spock remarks, "I'm detecting energy levels far above those of a Vulcan. Possibly another life form."

"Chapel, tell Rollins to prepare for transfusion, all the Vulcan plasma we have," McCoy orders, eyes still on his tricorder. "And to start growing liver, kidneys, marrow for transplant. And get an O2 pack set up. What the hell? I'm getting two EEGs. That's impossible."

The gurney abruptly quiets; Kevintek has stopped writhing. Spock and McCoy cautiously approach the gurney, then leap back as the golden lights burst through the "isolation" cover of the gurney. The lights coalesce above their heads, swoop down the corridor in waves, then rise through the ceiling and are gone. Spock and McCoy look at each other, then descend upon Kevintek. Chapel rushes to join them, fumbling with the O2 pack and talking with Rollins on her communicator.

McCoy unzips the gurney as Spock flips open his communicator. "Captain, the beings are loose on the ship. The isolation gurney failed to contain them."

They hear Kirk's voice, "Red Alert." Flashing red lights and wailing alarms add to the bedlam.

"Kevintek," McCoy shouts over the alarms. "Kevintek, are you with us?"

Spock speaks calmly. "Mr. Kevintek. Report." McCoy glares at him, but says nothing and holds out his hand for the O2 pack. Chapel gives it to him, and he clips it to Kevintek's collar.

Kevintek opens his eyes. "Mr. Spock. Lights of Cokindt. Incorporeal. Looking for suitable body. Found a better candidate. Left to inhabit. Hurts." His eyes squeeze closed, his jaw is clenched.

Spock speaks more urgently. "Who is the better candidate, Mr. Kevintek?"

 **#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#**

In the Geo/Hydro Lab, the scientists are scattered about at their various stations, turning off burners and closing vials of chemicals in reaction to the Red Alert. The golden wave rises through the floor, surrounds Anon, and enters her body.

"OH!" The nictating membrane immediately clouds over her eyes. Her arms spasm outward, knocking over her vials and materials. Shouting in Ktak, Anon slaps at her arms, her head, her torso, stamps her feet. She switches to Federation Standard. "Get out, get out!" Back to cursing in Ktak. She doubles over. Her fingers dislocate.

Andersen slaps the communication console. "Geo/Hydro Lab to Sickbay. Crewman in distress. We need help right now!" She runs to Anon. "Soli! What's the matter!"

 **#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#**

In Shuttle Bay, McCoy has increased the O2 level generated by the pack. "Kevintek, I'm just going to blow some oxygen by you. Good? Take it in. Come on back, Kevinteck. Come on. We're not going to lose a Vulcan on my watch, dammit. Come on. Chapel, I need the co-ag."

Kevintek opens his eyes, and looks past McCoy to Spock. "They hate gravity. They hate the atmosphere." His face is twisted in pain. "They hate my blood. That is illogical. They ..." He is silent again.

McCoy has grabbed his tricorder and is scanning the yellow shirt. "Only getting the one EEG now." Chapel hands McCoy an injector, which McCoy uses on Kevintek's torso. "Chapel, let's get this man to Sickbay. I'll get him to the lift. Tell Rollins he's on the way." McCoy pushes the gurney toward the elevator at a run. Chapel gathers the gear, stuffs it back in the kit, starts to follow while on her communicator.

Spock runs after the med team. "Who's the better candidate? Kevintek!"

McCoy's communicator goes off, and he hears Rollins's voice. "Problem in the Geo/Hydro Lab, Doctor. Crewman in acute distress."

McCoy rolls the gurney into the lift. "You're about to get your answer, Spock."

 **#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#**

In the Geo/Hydro Lab, the science teams are trying to figure out how to approach the thrashing Anon.

Manniar moves forward, then jumps back. "Is she having a seizure? What's that noise?"

"It's Ktak." Andersen edges towards her friend. "She's speaking Ktak. Why … Soli!" Andersen seizes Anon's shoulders, and is thrown violently away. She flaps her hands in pain. "What the hell?"

With an obviously massive effort, Anon straightens up. She coughs and spits. Two golden lights fly out with blood and spittle, and she stomps on them. Then she is wracked again with spasms, spins, slams her arms on the counter, spins again, bangs her head on the doorway repeatedly. She shouts again in Ktak, curses that even Andersen doesn't recognize.

Spock and McCoy arrive. McCoy aims his tricorder at Anon. Spock observes, reflects, glances out the door whence they came, at the Atmos lab across the corridor.

Spock gives the order. "Teams, evacuate the lab." The Hydros obey at full speed.

Andersen is defiant. "I'm not leaving my sister!" She ignores her tingling hands and seeks another approach.

"Only getting one EEG, Spock," McCoy announces. "She may be lucid. Good Lord!" Anon's elbows dislocate, then return to normal; now it's her shoulders, her arms flung into impossible positions, now her fingers again.

Spock raises his voice. "Ensign Anon. Are you able to get to the HBC across the corridor?"

"Are you insane, Spock?" McCoy is livid.

Spock ignores the doctor. "Ensign?"

"Yes. Dammit dammit dammit." More Ktak. Anon regards the door, lurches toward it, then is struck again. "You're not getting in my brain you bastards! Not!" She staggers through the door, but again is frozen in place.

Andersen mutters, "I'm so sorry, Soli. So sorry." She charges hard at Anon, and successfully knocks her across the hall towards the Atmos Lab. Andersen is thrown aside by the force field, and lands on her back. McCoy approaches in confusion to assist, but she waves him off, regains her feet, and limps after Anon.

Anon has made it to the door to the Atmos Lab, which contains the Hyperbaric Chamber to which Spock referred. She takes several more steps, stops, more steps, but again is frozen, an agonizing meter from the HBC.

"I apologize, Ensign." Spock follows the example of Andersen and runs at Anon, this time shoving her to the HBC. She hits the floor with the power of the collision and crawls the rest of the way into the chamber. Spock too is thrown back, but makes his way to the HBC control panel, seals the chamber, then raises both local gravity and atmospheric pressure. McCoy has followed them into the Atmos Lab, and continues to record the incident on his tricorder.

On her hands and knees, Anon coughs and spits repeatedly, producing golden sparks that she smashes with her hands. Suddenly, still on her knees, she is rigid. The lights exit her body, but as she slashes at them with her arms and hands, they seem unable to form the traveling wave previously observed. Despite the increased local gravity, she gets her feet under her and lunges at the lights repeatedly, falling, thrashing, chopping up their every attempt to coalesce.

McCoy's attention is no longer on his tricorder. "What the hell is she doing?"

Even in their dispersed state, there are clearly fewer of the lights; suddenly, there are none. Anon drags herself to the bench in the chamber, hauls herself onto it, but then gravity wins, and she quietly concedes. McCoy is still scanning her. Spock is scanning the area, aiming his tricorder in all directions.

Without looking up, Spock acknowledges Andersen. "Thank you for your quick thinking and actions, Andersen. Evacuate the unit now." The red alert continues its deafening shrieks and disruptive flashing. "Where did they go?"


	11. Chapter 11

**Section 4: Getting to Know You**

 **Chapter 4a: The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face**

Anon is sprawled awkwardly on her belly across the bench in the hyperbaric chamber, eyes closed, arm dangling. Spock and McCoy are outside the HBC in the Atmos lab, McCoy's attention fixed on his tricorder. Spock resets the HBC levels, and informs McCoy.

"Gravity has been restored to G-1. Pressure is lowering, thirty minutes to A-P 1."

Spock leans toward the intercom, flips it on. "Dr. McCoy will be monitoring your progress, Ensign. You may be released from the HBC at his command."

Anon is unresponsive, eyes still shut. McCoy looks up from his tricorder long enough to exchange glances with Spock, then studies it again.

"Pop up the oxygen level in there will you, Spock? Lung function still poor, some weird damage. Emphysema? Really?" He employs the tried-and-true method of recalibration by whacking his tricorder twice, and looks at it again.

"O2 levels raised to 30%." McCoy nods at him, and Spock hurries out of the lab.

McCoy pulls over the nearest work stool and seats himself before the glass wall. "We'll be here for a while so why don't we get acquainted. Can you tell me your name?"

"Cht-ti-t Kch Puttuk. Tk kahkah tittahk." (Narrator's Pop Quiz: (1) Translate the preceding Ktak phrases. No time limit. (2) Read aloud. No limits whatsoever.)

Without looking up, McCoy tries again. "Are you with me, Ensign? My name's Leonard. What's yours?"

Anon coughs spasmodically and mumbles, "Oh. Um." She gasps and wheezes. "7-un-siss-L."

McCoy finally lifts his eyes from the tricorder, studies his patient, notes her twisted position. "It might go easier if you can get flat on your back, with your knees bent up. Give you room to breathe, blood to your head."

Anon lurches to her back, nearly falling off the bench before she manages to scoot close to the wall, and draws in her feet.

She murmurs inaudibly, "S'better. Thanks, Leonard."

McCoy is back on the tricorder. "Yes, I like these readings better. You have a mild concussion according to the tricorder. If you have a headache, or blurred vision, or nausea, let me know."

"Unna-stood."

"So what's your name, Ensign?" Third time's the charm.

"Soli. Soli."

"There you go! Soli, do you know what happened to you, where you are?"

"Yes." Another cough explosion. "No."

McCoy has to strain to hear her, much less get the gist. "Come again?"

"I know what happened. Creatures. Don't know where I am. Sorry." Louder but no stronger.

"Yes, creatures." McCoy is relieved to have something to respond to. "You are in the Hyperbaric Chamber, Soli. The local gravity and atmospheric pressure were raised to drive out the … uh … creatures. Now we're ..."

Anon is off. "Bum-bum-bum-budda-bum-bum." Raspy, but recognizable. She sings, "Pressure. Pushin' down on me. Pressin' down on you ..." She stops, cut short by wheezing.

Once again McCoy is looking at the oddity that is his patient before him. "Are you all right?"

Anon gasps some more. "Trying to sing. Geezum. Feel like crap. Soun' like crap."

McCoy actually attempts to be reassuring. "Don't you worry. You'll heal right up, but the creatures did lay a little damage on you." Not bad for a doctor with a famously bad bedside manner.

Anon blurts out, "Lights (mispronounced as lice) of Cokindt."

"Lice?" Odder and odder.

"Hah. Lice. That's good. Parasites. But no, Lights (exaggerates the "t"). Lights of Cokindt. That's what they called themselves. Poetic." More gasping. "Murderous bastards." Anon whips her head back and forth, trying to suppress her discomfort.

McCoy glances down. "Soli, tricorder shows you're getting agitated. We can talk about this later."

"Or never."

"Or never, sure." McCoy is nothing if not agreeable. (The narrator is jesting. McCoy is mostly not agreeable.) "You could tell me about the song you were singing instead."

The distraction works. Anon responds, "Seemed to suit the circumstances. There's a song for pretty much everything I think."

"Do you?" McCoy mechanically encourages her, eyes on his tricorder.

"I do. Based on my deep, deep research." A coughing spasm, but her voice is firmer. "Music. A hobby of mine. Also 2D movies. Everybody needs a hobby or two."

"Do they?"

"They do. Couple thousand years of music. Ack. And cultures. Never going to get through it all, but I'm trying." She gasps, then finishes, "Leonard."

"Sounds like a worthy goal, Soli. Do you have a favorite? Song, I mean."

"Hard to say. Songs are tough. You have to look at lyrics, so language plus reading, blech." She coughs and gasps, then recovers. "Gotta like the music first. Then maybe get through the lyrics. Love, love, love instrumentals. Mmph. Love the voice, too, as an instrument ..."

McCoy picks up on the instrument reading again. "Keep talking, Soli. Don't fall asleep. Tell me more about the voice as an instrument. I'm not what you'd call an artistic soul."

"Quavotians." A shallow wheeze. "Quavotians are amazing. They have four sets of vocal cords, so four voices. One Quavotian sounds like an ensemble, three or four sound like a full chorus. It's mad. I'm so jealous."

McCoy is intrigued. "All I know about Quavotians is from med school. With all those lung sacs, pneumonia is tough to pinpoint. I didn't know about their music. Love to hear it sometime."

"I'll play it for you sometime. Wicked cool sound. Can't watch them, though. Too distracting."

McCoy chuckles at the sudden mental picture. "I can imagine."

"But with a pantole, you've really got to watch. Ack. It's from Persoruth. Flute thingies strapped together, huge to tiny. Blow through the ends. Mmph. Takes thirty-one people to play a pantole." She peters out.

"Stay with me, Soli. Come on. The pantole, what about it?"

"The pantole. Yes. What about it." She gasps. "People blowing the huge flutes get out of breath fast, so they swap positions with smaller ones. Almost constant running around while piece is being played. So fun. Fun to watch, and a great sound. Great."

"Really. Set me up with some of that too, later." McCoy rubs his eyes, stretches his neck.

"Yes, okay. I will." Anon pauses. "You've been so kind, Leonard. Thanks for. Mmph. Sorry. Keeping me company. What am I doing here, again? I'm sorry if you already told me."

"Commander Spock increased the gravity and air pressure levels to drive the creatures away, which it did, but now we have to slowly get the air pressure back to normal or you'll get the bends. N2 bubbles in your system. It's bad."

"Okay. Did you know Mr. Spock is my boss? I mean, my CO. Want to hear something sad? Not tragic sad, just kinda sad?"

McCoy wonders where she is going with this. "I'm not sure. But try me."

"When I found out Mr. Spock was going to be my boss, I listened to every single piece of Vulcan music ever recorded. So I could talk to him about something besides work." More coughing spasms. "It didn't take long. Just a few hours. But guess what. I didn't find anything I loved. Nothing I even liked. Every single piece was, I don't know, dour. Just grim."

McCoy smiles. "Why am I not surprised."

"Well, I was surprised." Anon contradicts him. "I've loved music that's joyful, angry, terrifying, loving, despairing. Any emotion, doesn't matter. But Vulcan music has none of that. It isn't music at all. To me, anyway. Ack. My lofty standards. So anyway, we only talk about work."

"Join the Spock friendship circle."

Now it's Anon's turn to chuckle. And to gasp and wheeze.

 **#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#**

After departing the Atmos lab, Commander Spock had joined Chief Security Officer Victorino on the lift to the bridge. Victorino is distraught.

"Give me something, Spock. Do we need to evacuate the ship?"

"Unknown, Mr. Victorino. The invaders clearly departed Anon's body, but we have no way of knowing where they went next, nor their condition. They may be in hiding. I believe we need to sweep the ship until Anon can advise us. Thirty minutes should allow us time to complete an initial sweep."

"A sweep?" Victorino questioned. "What are we looking for?"

Spock presses a series of keys on his tricorder. "I'm transmitting the energy signature and EEG patterns to your tricorder. If all your people look for one or both patterns, we should find out readily whether the invaders are still on the ship."

"And if we find them? What then? If they are in one of the crew – do we beam them to the base station and leave them to kill our crewman and maybe come back to the Enterprise anyway? Do we do wide-dispersal to destroy them, and kill the crewman. I need info, Mr. Spock!"

"I do not have enough information to advise you with any degree of confidence. Let us first attempt to ascertain whether they are in fact still on the Enterprise. Our alternatives are limited, and that possibility takes priority."

The lift has stopped. Victorino punches his own tricorder, and opens his communicator. "Victorino here. Security General All-Deck Sweep. Find the download in your tricorders for energy signature and EEG pattern. If found, notify me. Do not approach. Repeat, do not approach."

Spock steps out of the lift. "I will brief the Captain."

 **#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#**

Still counting down the minutes in the HBC, Anon is making progress.

"Deeper breaths are looking good, Soli. Keep at it."

"Oh, good." Anon inhales, exhales, coughs. Inhales, exhales. "Thanks for being here. Wait, I said that already, didn't I. Well, I meant it. I mean. Ack. Mean it."

"It's my job, Soli."

"You're very good at it, Leonard." She gasps. "Was it Leonard? Geezum, what's going on with my breathing!" She coughs some more. "Leonard, yes."

McCoy says coolly. "Yes, Leonard. Leonard McCoy, Chief Medical Officer."

Anon's eyes pop open at last. They are clear and bright. She turns her head to look at him.

"Oh. Oh dear."

"Yes. I missed you at your intake physical."

"I had it with Nurse Chapel instead." Anon responds defensively. "Didn't think it would matter. I mean, who cares, really." She turns her head to the wall, gasping, then back to McCoy.

"Someone might care. Seeing as it's part of my job to examine all incoming crew, I might care, actually." His voice is still casual, his demeanor relaxed.

"Look, Dr. McCoy. I have a ... an aversion to doctors." She turns her head away again to cough this time, turns back. "I hate 'em. All of them. Nothing personal."

"Oh, that's a relief."

Anon stares at the ceiling. "I am really sorry to be rude but geezum. Thirty seconds of happy talk, and then, 'I vant to scan your brain!' Every time."

McCoy clearly has the advantage and presses it. "I've seen your records. Eight times through the scanner may be too many, but can you blame them? Your brain scans are extremely interesting."

"Well, excuse me for livin' but I never read 'em." We know that Anon knows that this is not quite true, but it is almost literally true. Close enough to true.

McCoy has lost the advantage. "Say again?"

"Say what?"

McCoy stares at her. "I'll be a ... my grandmother always used to say, 'Excuse me for livin' but something something.'"

"I got it from a movie," Anon admits.

"She got it from her life. At least I thought she did. Now I'm not so sure. What do you mean, a movie?"

"A 2D. With music. Of course. Maybe…" Anon gasps. "Maybe you'd like to come to our movie night – we have a club? – when we screen it. But maybe not." She coughs hard again to the wall, turns back. "Our club is all a bunch of science and engineering geeks."

"What makes you think I'm not a science geek?" Somehow McCoy is insulted. Somehow his being insulted explains a lot.

"Because you said you don't have an artistic soul. Science geeks always have artistic souls at some level."

McCoy raises the stakes. "I was a science geek before you were born!"

Anon cups a hand over one eye and studies him with the other.

"You don't look it."

McCoy pauses. He snaps back to doctor mode. "You said you'd let me know if you were experiencing blurred vision."

"Did not. I just told you I understood." Technically true again. See how she does that? "But how could you tell ...? Oh." She moves cupped hand off and back on her eye. Coughs again. "I just needed a clear view. You really are so good looking without your glasses. Sorry, sorry. From another 2D. Couldn't resist."

"Now then, you don't need to apologize for calling me good looking. But you're avoiding the subject, like you apparently did before. The double vision?"

Anon turns her face away. She's clearly lost the advantage again. "You already know why I didn't mention it."

McCoy scoffs. After all, Anon doesn't know about his come-uppance from Chapel. "A brain scan? Tricorder already told me about your concussion. A brain scan. That's just silly."

"Okay, yah. Okay."

"Minor concussion, some lung damage. No broken bones. Scar tissue on your right calf, which Nurse Chapel told me is from an old injury, not from today." He had forgotten about that. Lucky the tricorder automatically retrieved her medical records from Sickbay. He's in a good position to restore proper order to and respect for his department.

"Right." Gasp. Wheeze.

"You know, Ensign, I'd like to see you try to sit up slowly. What you need to do is ..."

So much for order, proper or not. While McCoy thinks he is directing her with "What you need to do is," Anon says, "Oh, good," flips her legs over the side of the bench, sits up abruptly, and promptly face plants onto the floor. McCoy is on his feet in an instant pressed against the glass, horrified and helpless.

"Ow." Her voice is muffled but she sounds all right. "That didn't work. Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

McCoy settles back on the stool, exhaling in relief. "Are you sure you know the meaning of slowly?"

Anon rolls onto her side. "Ow. Again."

"Are you always so impulsive?"

Anon is suitably abashed. "Not always. Just muddle-headed sometimes. A lot of times. Like now. But okay, I'm listening."

 **#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#**

Chief Security Officer Victorino and Mr. Spock, in the Ready Room, listen intently as reports from the yellow shirts scouring the decks come in. The litany quickly turns into a chant:

Completed Deck 1, all Sectors. No matching energy signature. No EEG match.

Completed Deck 2, Sectors 1 through 12. No matching energy signature. No EEG match.

Completed Deck 3, Sectors 1 through 14. No matching energy signature. No EEG match.

And on and on.

As Kirk enters the Ready Room, Victorino is grousing. "This is getting nowhere."

"Nonetheless, we must complete the task before concluding the creatures are not infecting another crew member. I will message Dr. McCoy that I will need to interview Mr. Kevintek and Ensign Anon."

Kirk interjects, "Status, Spock? Vicco?"

Victorino goes first. "The search is almost complete, Captain. No sign of the creatures, no indication they infected anyone else. Mr. Spock and I have a disagreement as to how to proceed if they are found."

Kirk glances from Spock to Victorino and back again. When neither is willing to go first, he starts with Victorino for clarification. "What kind of disagreement?"

"Mr. Spock believes we should be merciful. I think we should destroy the bastards."

"Something more than a disagreement, I'd say." Kirk has no problem making a decision. "I hate to tell you, Spock, but I'm with Vicco on this one. Strongly."

Spock exclaims, "Captain, how can we say our mission is to seek out new life and civilizations if we destroy the ones we don't approve of?"

"By all appearances, Spock, those creatures were also seeking out new life. Ours. And when they found it, they destroyed it. You don't need to tell me about our mission, and I shouldn't have to tell you I have a responsibility to protect my ship and its crew. So do you."

Spock is typically impassive. "I shall await a response from Dr. McCoy on my interview request."

 **#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#**

Anon is sitting on the floor of the HBC, none the worse for her bumped nose, facing McCoy, and leaning back against the bench. McCoy feels confident enough in her progress to put away his tricorder for the present.

"Now that you're not looking at me sideways, we're going to do a very old-fashioned vision test," he explains. "Look at my hand. How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Two. No, just the one. You were right, this is a little better. Actually a lot."

McCoy instructs her, "Follow my finger." He moves it far left, right, up, down and repeats, watching her eyes following the movement accurately and promptly. "That's fine. The tricorder had showed a concussion, the double vision just confirmed it. But it's not so bad."

Anon breaks into song for the second time. "Doo-doo-doo-dooby-doo I can see clearly now, the rain is gone. I can see all obstacles in my way.

"Up in the air Sky high, sky high. Free from Lights of Coke-Ind-Tie. She will be surely happier though She still is a muddle-headed schmoe. Doodle-doo. Doodle-doo. Nyut-nyut-nyut-nyut-nyut-nyut." Her wheezing spasm is prolonged this time before she gasps out. "Sorry to keep doing that."

McCoy actually laughs out loud. "What the hell was that! I've never had a patient session like this, Lord A'mighty."

Anon would be more embarrassed if Breaking-Into-Song-To-The-Bewilderment-Of-Everyone-Around-Her weren't a regular occurrence with her. But she's embarrassed enough for McCoy to notice, so she says, "I'll shut up now."

McCoy is still chuckling. "Not at all. It's been delightful. You've been delightful. Especially for someone who just went through what I saw you going through."

"No, no, no." Her self-conscious stammer has joined forces with her emphysema to make her all but incoherent. "You just. You talk now, I'll listen. You… Ack. Tell me about yourself. Your family. Your, your hobbies. Okay? A hobby?"

Somehow McCoy manages to translate her babble into a semblance of a conversational gambit. "I don't have any hobbies. I'm a doctor and a researcher. That's how I spend all my time."

"Really?" Anon can't imagine life without her hobbies, and her disbelief pushes her beyond the stammer. "Well how about when you were a child? Before you only did doctoring and researcher-ing. You must have had some obsession. Childhood passions are the best."

McCoy ponders the question. "As a child. Well, when I was a kid, I loved to play and watch baseball. I guess that would count as a childhood passion."

"Baseball? There is still such a thing? There are two old 2Ds about baseball that I love. But neither of them really explains the game. What did you love about it?"

McCoy grows expansive, remembering. "The very first thing I loved about it was the spitting. No lie."

"Ew. Why?"

"Well, Ensign, I was a boy. Boys are fascinated by stuff like that." His eyes are distant, a smile just flickering across his face. "There are so many styles – the long stream, the huge wad, the chin dribble. It was gross. It was great. Bubble gum, sunflower and pumpkin seeds, dip. The dugout was a boy's paradise."

"Huh." Anon has to process this. "Did you ever learn to play or just to spit?"

The question is too innocent for McCoy to be offended. "Yes, I learned to play. It's a real tough game. Ball is thrown at you, a small, hard ball, and you have to hit it with a thin, round bat. Ball can go anywhere, if you can hit it at all. And the field is so big, every player is exposed. You can and do make a fool of yourself very publicly. I sure did."

"Do you have any favorite video or holos to show me?" Anon is off and running, eagerly pursuing a new subject. "Like, when the ball is hit, how do they know where it's going to land? How do they throw it back so far? And what's all the running around after they hit the ball? Where are they going?"

"Ah, these are deep questions of physics and physiology, Ensign." McCoy hasn't thought about this in years. "And rules. And strategy and planning. It's such a beautiful game. I'd be happy to share my favorite moments with you if you want. You'd see solos, ensembles, direction, pacing, purpose, heroics, humiliation. It's an athletic ballet. But baseball will also break your heart, so take care."

Anon is captivated. "See, Mr. Science Geek? Oh, sorry, sorry, I mean Dr. McCoy. You do have an artistic soul."

The slight flicker of his smile grows to encompass his eyes. "Maybe I do."

 **#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#**

In the Ready Room, Kirk, Spock, and Victorino must face up to their failure to find the Lights of Cokindt, and the uncertainty it brings. Uncertainty is not in Kirk's wheelhouse.

"Captain, we've swept all decks," Victorino confirms. "No identifying signature was detected."

Kirk leans towards the intercom connected to the bridge and activates it. "Cancel Red Alert. Go to Yellow Alert." Then to Victorino, "But you don't know."

"No," Victorino concedes. "We don't know for sure. Our information is very limited. No criticism intended, Mr. Spock."

Spock is unaffected. "Dr. McCoy informed me that Anon will shortly be moved from the HBC to Sickbay. I will question her as to the invaders' plan."

"Their plan?!" Kirk's voice rises in frustration. "I don't give a damn about their plan. My plan is to destroy the buggers."

"Captain, please." Spock is not easily turned. "They are a unique life form. It defies Federation standards to annihilate a life form."

Victorino explodes. "Spock, you didn't see what they did! I was on the base station. All, all people dead. Obviously, obviously tortured before they died! These things have to be destroyed. Not swept off the ship. Crushed. Extinct.

Spock again, cool and calm: "I must object. We do not have the right under Federation protocol …"

Kirk again, even more frustrated. "To hell with protocol. These things exterminated the base station – did you even look at the condition of the bodies, Spock? I did! And they would have killed two of my crewmen if not for …"

"If not for their own decision to spare Mr. Kevintek. If not for my fruitful questioning of Mr. Kevintek that led to the successful effort to drive them out of Ensign Anon using increased levels of gravity and atmospheric pressure. The life form told Mr. Kevintek of their plan, and they were truthful. When I can question Anon, I naturally expect that they told her their next move. We can respond to that appropriately."

When logic prevails, counter with violence. Right on cue, Victorino counters Spock's argument. "Our only response can be to end this, end them."

"Spock. I admire your decency. I really do." Kirk cannot stop himself from becoming impassioned. "But this was not a misunderstanding. One death, okay maybe even a couple of deaths can be a tragic mistake. We have to bear that burden. But wiping out the station? That was deliberate. They don't get a chance to wipe out my ship. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Captain. I will question Anon bearing that in mind."

Kirk's eyes bore into Spock. "Are you sure you can do that?"

 **#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#**

Back at the HBC, the half-hour depressurization has completed, and McCoy is once more scanning his patient with the tricorder. He is satisfied.

"Now. Air pressure is normalized, and my trusty tricorder tells me you're ready to come out. Just one more thing – the O2 levels are high in there, so I'm going to put them back to ship standard. Breathe normally. If you feel uncomfortable or short of breath, let me know. I can help with that."

McCoy stands, goes to the controls, dials back the levels. He aims the tricorder at Anon, who is still sitting on the floor.

"I'm fine," Anon declares. "Of course I'm fine. Fine. Okay 'kay. Fine fine fine." Not so fine. She is gasping, and now hyperventilating.

"Breathe normally, Ensign!" McCoy begs her. "Head between the knees." He works the controls while he is coaching her, raising the oxygen levels again, trying to get the doors to open. "Don't hyperventilate. Nothing good ever came of hyperventilating. Oh, dammit, there she goes." Anon's eyes have rolled back, and she has tipped over sideways, hitting her head again. McCoy slams the doors in a useless rage as the seals only gradually pull back and the doors finally open. He rushes in, falls to his knees and gently pulls her back to a lying position, knees up. This is right back where she started. He suppresses a curse, and outfits her with an oxygen delivery pack like the one that revived Kevintek.

"Gonna dose you with some O2," McCoy chants. "Please come back to me, Soli. Come on, come on. Hello, Ensign, good to see you."

"Now what happened? Did I pass out? Geezum." She sounds annoyed – she must be all right.

"Yeah, it happens when you hyperventilate."

"I don't know what that means." She is rubbing her eyes.

"It's very fast, shallow breathing." McCoy looks at her suspiciously. "How did you pass the first aid course without knowing that?"

"The same way I passed most classes. Memorized the book, aced the text exam, didn't have to do anything with it in the practical exam, luckily." Knowledge without understanding, that's Soli Anon's modus operandi.

"Not my idea of luck," McCoy chides her. "You..." He pauses. "I'm an idiot!" McCoy picks up the tricorder, makes an adjustment, and aims the instrument at her. "This explains a lot. It almost was much worse." He then adjusts the O2 pack.

"Please explain. You're scaring me." Anon turns and hoists herself onto an elbow, breathing hard but steadily. No more hyperventilating for her today, thank you very much.

"You don't know what you can't measure," McCoy cites. "And you can't know what you don't measure."

"First year Geo." A gleam of recognition.

"First year Bio. I should have configured the healthy O2 sats at a higher level for you and your big dense brain. Tricorder would've told me you were in distress."

"I could have told you." Anon is still wheezing, but somewhat less painfully. "I should have told you."

"Still my job to figure it out. I'll have to enter a reprimand in my record for this one." McCoy observes Anon for a few moments until he is satisfied. "Keep this pack on for a while. I'm going to walk you back to Sickbay."

"Oh, no, no, why!" Anon flops onto her back again, hands on her face.

"Lots of reasons, Ensign Paranoid," McCoy lightly mocks her. "I want to check your gait, your balance. I'm going to dose you with an OP/A – pain killer with anti-inflammatory – for your lungs and your poor abused joints. You need to drink some juice and eat some carbs, and then keep it down. You'll be outfitted with a longer-term O2 pack to wear for the rest of the day. I'll give you co-ag – coagulant – injections to minimize bruising where you were smashing into things. And of course I vant to scan your brain."

"Oh for..." Anon cries. Then she realizes she's been suckered. "Ow again. Got it. I deserved that." And she coughs. "Why'd you have to be so nice, Leonard? I mean Dr. McCoy. You'll change my mind. About doctors. About you, anyway."

She looks down, embarrassed. Was that flirting? Yes, it was. And a bad job of it too. She knows it. McCoy smiles out of her view, but does not take the bait. He hooks the tricorder on his belt, crouches down, and extends his arm.

"One hand on the bench, one on my arm. Get your feet under you and stand." Now McCoy is truly confident he is on top of the situation.

They stand together. Anon immediately lets go of both the bench and the arm, takes a step away, and topples. McCoy grabs at and just catches her, yanking her upright.

"Slow down!" He's on top of nothing. "Just stand! Just stand."

She stands. She looks at him. They look at each other. Then each looks away.

"Good to see you on your feet at last."

"I'm on your feet, too."

They both look down, and see that her feet are indeed on top of his. "I didn't notice. You don't weigh anything. Funny. I thought you were bigger, the way you were crashing around earlier."

"I am bigger," Anon objects. "I have the field scientist body, huge muscles, very heavy for my height. And no jokes about my height. I've heard them all."

"I wouldn't dream of it." McCoy is such the gentleman. "My boots must be stiffer than I thought to hold up under all that muscle weight. You should get off before they give way."

Anon steps carefully back. He is still supporting her, but moves his grip from under her armpits to under her elbows. They are still very close together. They resume eye contact.

"You have violet eyes." Count on McCoy to state the obvious.

Anon smiles for the first time. "I like that. Everybody always says purple. Violet is lyrical."

"I imagine your young man gets lost in those eyes." Lame, Doctor. Very lame. He knows it.

Anon dissolves into a fit of laughing and coughing. "I imagine that, too. I also imagine that he thinks I'm brilliant and beautiful, and everything. He's an imaginary boyfriend, so, you know, I can imagine whatever I want. And you, does your … your ladylove get lost in your ebony eyes?" Even lamer, Ensign. She knows it.

"Ebony. We are going for poetry here, aren't we? But no wife, no ladylove. No … no."

The moment has passed, thank god. McCoy takes one more step back, but still doesn't release her. "Okay. So. Let's get to Sickbay. I have some Doctor's Orders. Are you listening?"

"Of course."

"You've had three falls under my so-called care. Well, two falls and a near-miss. I can get a gurney for you. But I'd prefer for you to walk if you can. I couldn't detect any broken bones, dislocations, torn muscles or tendons, but the … contortions the Lights put you through worry me even so."

"They weren't trying to hurt me, just kill me. Wait. That sounds wrong."

"No changing the subject," McCoy is learning to read her. "I'm just asking whether you can tell me what's happening. You are a person, not a number on an instrument."

"Yes." Then more quietly, "Yes, I am."

"You are probably going to be in quite a bit of pain, so you need to tell me your actual, subjective experience," McCoy explains. "Can you do that?"

"Yes, I can."

McCoy cocks his head, waiting.

"And I will." Anon surrenders. "I can, and I will." And she will. She's devious, but not dishonest.

"Take my arm. Both hands, that's right. Feel steady? Let's go for that walk."

They leave the HBC and the Atmos lab, and start down the corridor.

Anon shakes her head. "I feel like I'm a thousand years old."

"You're tottering like my Grammy, when I took her to market," McCoy observes. "Except for the grip. Lordy."

"Occupational hazard. Geologists have hands the size of dinner plates and leather palms. She gasps for breath again. "Tell me about your Grammy. Your grandmother? She must have loved walking with her grandson, arm in arm. How old were you?"

They continue walking slowly, McCoy reminiscing pleasurably about his grandmother, his mother, and his sister to a person with only borrowed experiences in any of those relationships but an abiding hunger for all of them, who is hanging onto his every word.


	12. Chapter 12

**Section 4: Getting to Know You**

 **Chapter 4b: A Case of You**

Anon toddles, unsupported, down the corridor to Sickbay. McCoy follows, observing. His tricorder is belted.

Andersen is chatting up Chapel in Sickbay, but breaks off when she spots her friend. "Soli! Little sister!" She bolts down the corridor. "You're okay! You are okay, aren't you? Dr. McCoy, is she okay?" She embraces Anon, and they walk the remaining steps to Sickbay together, Andersen's arm supporting Anon.

"Ensign, settle yourself here." McCoy watches as Andersen seats Anon on the nearest examination table. "I'll be back."

"I'm pretty okay, Block Head," Anon reassures Andersen. "Been better but yah, okay."

"And you settle yourself, Lieutenant, if you don't mind." McCoy punches at the console, and confers with Nurse Chapel. They head in different directions.

"I thought they'd bring you in a gurney or at least a wheelchair," Andersen confides. "You were such a mess! It was horrible! Why did Dr. McCoy make you walk?"

Anon squirms on the table, trying to get comfortable. McCoy's prediction of pain was being fulfilled already. "Because I could, so he wanted to see how stable I was." And she coughs. "He wanted to check out my balance. My gait."

"Yah, check out your gait. Spelled A-S-S."

"Geezum, Janay." Anon is undeniably, categorically shocked. This thought has never occurred to her.

From the next room, McCoy responds mildly. "I'm still here, Lieutenant." Anon cringes.

"Wha-a-a-at! I thought you had left." Andersen winks at Anon, who cringes all the more.

"It's Sickbay. Where else would you expect me to be!" McCoy re-enters the area with two injectors and another O2 pack. "I have an injured patient. Why are you here?"

"Your injured patient is my little sister," Andersen replies indignantly. "Of course I'm here." Chapel enters carrying a tray with juice and crackers, which Andersen takes as her cue to go. "But I'm outta here now, Rock Head. Red Alert was canceled, and I have to get back to lab. See you later?"

"I'll let you know as soon as I have any actual idea." Andersen and Anon do their tradition of kissing fingers and touching them to foreheads.

"Hey." Andersen points her index finger at McCoy. "Take care of my little sister."

"You know I will." For once, McCoy is not annoyed with Andersen, who takes her leave.

Chapel interjects. "Here's something for you to drink and eat, Ensign. Try to keep it down, okay?"

She watches Anon drink the juice and start to eat the crackers. "The finger-kissing-forehead thing. Is that how you two avoid skin-to-skin?"

"Yah. Janay came up with it first time we met. Oops." Anon brushes away spattered cracker crumbs. "She has never pressured me about the touch thing. Almost never. Not too much. Not so much I can't stand it. Such a good friend. I am so lucky." She coughs. "My big sister." Chapel has a big sister, too, whom she seldom sees. She smiles fondly in recollection and recognition, pats Anon's hand and takes the tray away.

McCoy is all business – no reverie for him. "As I told you, you're getting a pain-killer, then a co-ag injection to prevent serious bruising. Here's the OP/A." He injects one arm, moves to the other side. "Be warned – it will make you a little foggy. Now a general co-ag injection, then one for your temple, where you hit when you passed out. I can see it turning colors already." He injects her upper arm through her shirt, reaches for her forehead.

Anon pulls back, wincing. "Wait, wait." She prepares herself – deep breath, thousand-yard stare. McCoy frowns at the ritual but she doesn't seem to notice. "Okay, go ahead." McCoy steadies her head with one hand, uses the injector with the other.

"Done." McCoy brings both hands back. Anon returns to her normal self. "The only thing left is the long-term O2 pack. Watch, Ensign, I'm setting it to the levels of your temp pack. Now I'm swapping out the short with the long, quick and smooth. Hardly noticed the switch, yes?"

"Yah, that was smooth. I was just preparing to panic and it was over."

"Hmm." McCoy is silent for a moment in contemplation. "Can I ask you something? You passed the pulmo-cardio fitness tests?"

"Wouldn't have graduated Academy if I didn't. You know that." A cough. Much milder. The anti-inflammatory is working. "But I was dead last, barely passed. I worked so hard, but still, worst in my class."

McCoy reaches for the O2 pack and makes an adjustment. "I'm increasing the O2 again, a couple of points above where it was in the HBC. How does that feel?"

Anon takes a deep breath, exhales and opens her eyes wide, then does it again, face tense in concentration. "Really fine. What's going on?"

McCoy explains, "I'm thinking your people live on a planet with relatively high O2 levels. You can get by on ship standard, but I believe you only thrive on a higher level. Once we fix your lungs – it'll be a while, I'm afraid – I'll test you thoroughly, and then I'll require your quarters to be at whatever level turns out to be best for your species."

Anon first stares at him in disbelief, then hangs her head. "I can't tell you how sorry I am, the things I said. It was unforgiveable."

"What? Not a bit. Uncalled for maybe, but you did say it wasn't personal. The patient who threatened to cut off my fingers and toes one by one and eat them, now that was personal and might've been unforgiveable. But he got better, so …" He shrugs his shoulders.

"I'm serious." She looks it. Serious and also sincere. "This is the first time that anybody made a connection between what I was experiencing and what my people must be like. My people. That sounds so lovely. You did more in twenty minutes than every doctor combined did in twenty years. Thank you so much."

McCoy tosses it off with a wave of his hand, but he is pleased nonetheless. "I hate to tell you, Ensign, those damn scans provided the data all along but I missed it."

"You and everybody else. Don't beat yourself up. You actually did put it together. Nobody else ever did a single thing with those stupid scans. I think you're amazing."

"You've convinced me. I'll remove those demerits from my record." An awkward silence falls. Anon is the first to break it.

"Can I go back to lab now? Should I go to my quarters?"

"Neither." McCoy gathers the injectors and the used O2 pack and throws them in a bin. "Mr. Spock wants to interview both my patients from the incident today. Just a few questions, he said. If you're up for it, he's in the next ward. You're in better shape than your compatriot, so we're going to his bed."

"I'm up for it, whatever it is. I thought the whole thing was over."

"Let's find out, shall we?" He offers his arm as he did before; she laughs, and gasps of course, and takes it.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Passing through a door, McCoy ushers Anon into a private ward. Spock is already waiting. Anon sits; McCoy goes to Kevintek, checks his vitals and treatment status.

Spock greets them, "Ensign Anon. You seem fully recovered."

"Not fully, Spock," McCoy warns. "Tread lightly."

"Understood. I have a concern, Anon. Kevintek was attacked by the creatures …"

"The Lice of Cokindt …" Anon corrects him. Sort of.

"Uh, yes, shortly before they attacked you. He told me …" Kirk and Victorino have entered. McCoy frowns, and looks from one to the other in alarm, then at Spock.

"Mr. Kevintek told me," Spock continues, "that prior to their departure from him, they communicated to him their plans. Namely, that they intended to attack a 'better candidate.' That turned out to be you for still-unknown reasons. When they left your body, did they also tell you their plans? Where did they go? I ask because we have scanned the entire ship and cannot detect any trace of them. Naturally this concerns us."

"They meant to leave. They tried to." Anon coughs, then goes on. "But they are all dead. Or gone. Or whatever you want to call it. You can stop looking."

"That is disturbing. What is your evidence that they are all gone? All dead?"

"Evidence?" Anon's raises her eyebrows. This feels familiar – the Ktak argument that randomly goes everywhere and then concludes with what is the most obvious in the first place. "You set up a fatal environment for them – high gravity, high atmospheric pressure." After that long sentence, she gasps to catch her breath again. "I took the hint, and made sure the photon wave was too choppy to escape intact. They all died. Is there some special word that describes lights winking out other than 'died?' I assumed that was the plan." She wheezes and sways slightly, but recovers.

"That was not the plan." Spock is dangerously calm. "The plan, as you call it, was to make the environment too uncomfortable for them to stay, so they would depart the ship. Not to murder them all."

"Murder!" Anon wheezes, harsher this time. "Murder! They were monsters." She coughs and gasps. "They had killed thousands of people already. Geezum, maybe I'm not ready for this interview after all, Mr. Spock." Now she gasps and coughs.

"I don't follow you either, Mr. Spock." Kevintek's voice is soft as he rises as best he can to Anon's defense. "Did you want the Lights of Cokindt to continue? Do you not know what they were?"

"They scanned as pure energy. They obviously could communicate." Spock is not intimidated. "That qualifies as an unknown life form about which we should learn more."

"No!" Anon sees all the officers frowning at her disputation, and she backs down. "I mean, I respectfully disagree, Sir. They gave the appearance of life. Ack. But there was no life. Not even as much as a virus. Years and years ago there had been" she gasps, "tens of thousands of them …"

"30,848," Kevintek interjects helpfully.

"Yah, and they were down to around 700 …"

"Exactly 717." Kevintek again. Oh, that Vulcan precision.

"So they were dying off anyway." Anon has taken advantage of the interruptions to gasp some more. "But they could have and would have killed lots more by the time they were all gone. I …" She coughs, and McCoy finally steps forward, adjusts Anon's O2 pack, glaring at Kirk. "Thanks. Thank you. I thought I was doing the right thing by disrupting the wave and letting the conditions destroy the individual particles. I still do. I do."

"I have to support Ensign Anon in her analysis, sir." Kevintek rallies again, though he is fading. "They communicated clearly their intention to assume a physical body in order to restore themselves as they once had been. But for all their attempts with bio-life, they failed repeatedly. And killed, inevitably." He is done.

"Yes, Mr. Kevintek." Anon picks up the thread. "They stunk at life because they were already dead." Anon looks up from Kevintek directly at Spock. "Their sun was dead. Their world was dead. They had high-level bio-tech, but no. Warp. Drive." Agitated again, she fights for breath. "Speed of light. Too long to. Cross the galaxy. Lost the feel of life. Characteristics of light. Photons. Not alive. They thought they could just … And they didn't care. How many lives. Oh! They took in their miserable obsess …" Another cough. "In their quest."

Kirk has heard enough. "Thank you for your insights Mr. Kevintek, Ensign Anon. You are dismissed."

Anon takes Kevintek's hand and chokes out, "Hope you get better fast, Mr. Kevintek."

"Thank you," he whispers. "Dr. McCoy assures me I will recover completely."

"Then..." Anon is cut off by Spock's curt reminder.

"The captain dismissed you, Ensign."

"Yes sir, sorry sir." She looks anxiously at McCoy for direction. What does "dismissed" mean in Sickbay?

McCoy presses the intercom button on the wall. "Chapel. Rollins." Chapel enters immediately, having obviously been eavesdropping.

"Here, Doctor."

"Help the ensign back to her bed," McCoy tells Chapel. "Give her a BD inhaler for the cough, please." Chapel and Anon exit the ward, and McCoy turns on Kirk, Spock, and Victorino.

"Get the hell out of my Sickbay."

"My apologies for disturbing your patients." Kirk is only marginally contrite. "Vicco, Spock, the Ready Room." He leaves Sickbay with Spock and Victorino, as Rollins arrives in the ward.

"Monitor Kevintek, will you please, Rollins." As McCoy starts to exit Kevintek's ward to go to Anon's, he overhears the distraught conversation between Anon and Chapel.

"Oh god, Nurse Chapel what have I done?" Coughing and gasping. "Am I going to be court-martialed? It seemed so clear at the time, but my god I killed 700 beings, didn't I. That can't be allowed, right? What was I thinking!" Gasps on top of gasping.

"Calm yourself, Soli, breathe deep, breathe slow." Chapel's soothing voice has its desired effect. "Nobody is getting court-martialed, dear. What's the matter with your eyes?"

"Nothing's the matter with my eyes. It's normal for my species. Oh! Oh!"

"All right dear, breathe deep, breathe slow. Deep and slow. Don't even think about it. Deep and slow. That's my girl."

McCoy whirls and storms out of Sickbay into the corridor, in pursuit of the other officers. He catches up with them at the door to the Ready Room.

"Hey!" McCoy advances on Spock, menacing for possibly the first time in his life. "What the hell was that, Spock? You said just a few questions, next thing I know it's a damn inquisition."

"Not his fault, Bones." Kirk steps between them. "My fault. I don't like my senior officers bickering, and I wanted to hear his questions and the answers for myself."

McCoy is not mollified, but now he turns on Kirk. "You want answers?! We are trying to keep Kevintek alive long enough to replace the liver and kidneys and bone marrow those Lice destroyed."

"Lights," Spock corrects.

"I know that, Spock! That sweet little ensign …" Kirk starts, looking at McCoy in surprise. "We have to come up with a medium to re-grow her blown-out alveoli, I've never even seen emphysema before, know nothing about her species, and she thinks she's going to jail! Dammit, Jim, you blind-sided me!" Narrator's note to the oblivious readers out there: McCoy is not happy.

"Bones." Kirk doesn't need no stinking narrator's note to know he needs to appease the good doctor. Good and mad, that is. "Bones, I am going to recommend that both of your patients receive recognition for their clear thinking. Hell, Anon should get a medal if I have anything to say about it. Spock, you were right, I was wrong. She was the right candidate."

"Although I did disagree, I admit that ultimately her analysis was both rapid and sound."

McCoy throws up his arms. "What are you on about! Candidate? Analysis! What in damnation …"

"Senior officer briefing will be tomorrow, if you can manage it," Kirk continues equably. "If you can't, let me know when. And your patients do not need to report or provide any further analysis. Is that all okay with you, Bones?"

"Tomorrow won't work. Have to do Kevintek's first surgery. The day after instead. Sorry for the rant, Jim. And Spock. Victorino." McCoy's anger is spent.

"Understood, Bones. Go on back to your patients."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

McCoy reenters Sickbay, unnoticed by Chapel and Anon. Anon is on the bed curled up in fetal position, and Chapel's arms are wrapped around her. McCoy hesitates, then crosses to the sink, ostensibly to wash his hands, but mostly to give the two a chance to prepare for his return. On hearing the running water, Chapel releases Anon, who pulls back and abruptly stands at attention, wincing. Those joints and muscles did not like sitting immobile.

"At ease soldier." McCoy dries his hands and turns around. Anon sits, slumping on the table. Chapel protectively puts her hand on Anon's shoulder, and gives McCoy the eye.

"Relax, Ensign," McCoy says. "Kirk wants to pin a medal on you. Your first debriefing?"

"Yah. I made a fool of myself, didn't I."

"Not a bit. Well, maybe a little. No! Not at all!" He sees the full gamut of expressions flutter over her face and recognizes belatedly she is not to be kidded right now.

"Can I please be released?" She looks drained and worn, but McCoy finds he is unwilling to let her go.

"You've kept everything down, so yes. But only to my custody. You made a promise, remember? As did I."

"What promise? Oh, the pantole. Baseball," Anon recalls. "No, no, that's all right. You don't have to. You were nice to let me blab away, but …"

"You wound me deeply, Ensign." McCoy's unexpected (unexpected to him, obvious to the rest of us) desire to make an excuse for keeping her around brings out the pompous stiff in him. "I sincerely want to listen to your music, and to show you the greats of the game. I truly do."

"Me too, actually." Anon doesn't have a pompous bone in her body, and takes him at his word. "It sounds like fun."

"Why don't you wash up while I bring the duty doctor up to date and sign you out." McCoy heads back to Kevintek's ward to confer with Rollins. "Rollins, I'm off duty. Done. Anon is released, but needs to come back tomorrow …"

"Right." Anon goes into the head. She jumps when she glances in the mirror. After all these years, she is still not accustomed to getting useful information from a mirror. "Oh geezum, I'm a fright!" She smooths and re-pins her hair, rolls up her sleeves, noticing one is torn, undoes her gloves, and starts to wash her face. "Ooh, ow!" She looks closely in the mirror, gently pats the discoloring already underway on her temple, then feels the back of her head and rubs her back, examines her arms and legs. She finishes washing and re-covers her hands, but keeps the sleeves rolled up to conceal the rip.

Anon is waiting for McCoy when he returns. "Dr. McCoy, is my head supposed to be doing this? I thought the co-ag prevents bruising."

McCoy reaches for her face. She jerks back, composes herself as before, then allows him to examine her temple.

"Chapel?" She appears. "Would you check inventory and confirm the co-ag used on the Ensign, please?" He speaks to Anon. "Anywhere else?"

"Back of the head. Right knee. Left hip. Both forearms." She peels back the arm coverings to reveal the black-and-blue developing on her arms. McCoy examines the back of her head. "Don't touch my arms!" McCoy looks at but doesn't touch her forearms. He partially lifts her shirt and lowers the waistband of her trousers to see her purpling hip.

"My, my, what a mess." McCoy has just quoted a 2D, unbeknownst to himself, but Anon immediately recognizes it.

Anon rolls up her right pants leg, but does not remove the covering, merely rolling it down to the knee to reveal the bruising.

"You're not going to let me see that mysterious scar on your calf, are you."

"Never without my permission." She is in full we're-not-talking-about-this mode and chooses a diversionary tactic.

"Another quote?" No flies on McCoy.

"Yah. I'm very predictable."

"Not the word I'd use." He might use that word if he got a few hundred movies under his belt and found quotes popping out of his mouth regularly.

Chapel returns. "It was the S4. What you ordered."

"Well it's not quite working." McCoy has straightened up. "Almost no swelling from synovial fluid, so that's something, but this turning colors. Hmm. We'll do this the old-fashioned way – lots of ice packs. Here's something else to add to your med records."

Covering up her arms and hands again, Anon asks, "Does this mean I have to stay in Sickbay?"

"Only for a little while longer. But we have entertainment here, too, you know. We can still do our art and athletics lessons. I'm officially off duty."

Anon plops onto the table, shoulders slumped. Chapel has retrieved cold packs, settles Anon on her back yet again, loads her up with packs, and discreetly goes to the other ward. Anon is stiff and still and utterly morose. McCoy takes pity.

"Let's start with your music. You look like you need it. The pantole? What do you think?"

Anon countenance promptly brightens. It is her nature. "Yah. You're right. Computer. Ecir Snave's _Ninth Concerto for Pantole_. Audio and video. Good one."

McCoy pulls up a chair and leans back to watch the projection on the ceiling as the strains begin of what sounds like combined flute and recorder choirs. He adjusts one of the ice packs on Anon's covered forearm, lets his hand linger. She has a small spasm, clenching her fist, so he moves his hand away, just enough so they are no longer touching; she darts her eyes at him, then relaxes the fist. He continues to regard the images on the ceiling. Mr. Subtle.

"Here we go." Anon has only done this with Andersen in the past, and is ready to enjoy yakking about her favorite subject. "Listen with your eyes closed for a while. Hear how rich the tones are, how perfect the rhythm and harmonies? Now, open your eyes! Wah! Look at them go! Total disconnect, yah? How can they keep track of what they're playing?" McCoy laughs with her and draws closer. Mr. Smooth.

Anon turns her head slightly to look at McCoy and the ice pack slips. He repositions it and holds it in place on her forehead. She slips her hand under his other hand, lightly holds his fingers.

The end of her icing time approaches, with Anon still on the table, packed in with thawing cold packs, McCoy's hand still on top of hers. The precise vocalizations of a Quavotian are heard, with the disconcerting view of a broad, two-mouthed head producing a remarkably beautiful song. Chapel is about to enter the ward, but pauses, steps back, and quietly calls to the on-call doctor.

"Rollins. Dr. Rollins. Come see this." Rollins joins Chapel, looks in on McCoy and Anon, and does a double take.

"Never thought I would see that in my lifetime. What's her deal?"

"I can't figure it. She comes across as so vulnerable, you feel like you've just got to take care of her. Janay Andersen – you know Janay?"

"Everybody knows Janay."

"Janay is everyone's best friend, right? But when she was in here earlier she called Anon her sister and fussed over her exactly that way. This afternoon I turned into her mother, after Spock called her out.

"So are you saying you think McCoy is a father figure to her? Or a brother? No. Chapel, you're sick. Look at him. Okay, technically he's off-duty so it doesn't matter, but look at him."

"I know, right? That's why I wanted you to see. Our Chief Medical Officer actually looks happy in a woman's company. Very weird but awfully nice. He deserves it." A chime rings, and Rollins slips away. Chapel finally enters the area. "There's the timer, doctor. Cold pack has done as much as it's going to do."

McCoy straightens up a little too quickly, pulls away cold packs, and hands them to Chapel as the Quavotian song continues. He waits to speak until the song is over. "Let's sit you up, Ensign. I warn you, you are going to regret it."

Anon struggles to a sitting position with some difficulty and gasps. "Everything hurts."

"The problem with old-fashioned medicine is that it gives the illusion of doing something while really doing almost nothing." McCoy is belying his oft-stated declaration of country doctor-hood. "You need to get moving and limbered up. You'll feel much better if you do. Maybe I can take you to dinner, Ensign?"

"So I'm finally released? Look, you mustn't waste any more time on me, Dr. McCoy. I'm sure you have much better things to do. Thanks anyway. My breathing is better mostly. I can get to the mess hall myself and then back to my quarters."

"I'm sure you can, Ensign. I … just want to go to dinner with you. Is that okay? With you, I mean, of course."

"Oh!" Anon's hands fly up to her mouth, flutter in apprehension. "No, I can't. I don't ever …" McCoy looks at her, head cocked. He's adorable. It works again, just as it did in the HBC. "Yah. I mean yes. I'd like … yah, that's okay with me, Doctor McCoy."

McCoy goes to his computer console, punches some keys. He comes back to the exam table, and offers his arm for the third time.

"Shall we?" He smiles down at her in unaffected pleasure. Andersen has been working to draw a smile from him from more than two years in vain. You never know.

Anon misses a beat, maybe two, before taking his elbow. She searches for a lyric, finds one, quotes it but doesn't sing it. "Away, away." The smile she sends his way contains a mix of pleasure and dread, warmth and cold. She knows exactly who and what she is and why she has been avoiding intimate contact for a quarter century, as do we. Yet as usual she accepts her predicament placidly, knowing the impermanence of all troubles. Something will turn up. She has never read Dickens, but she personifies Mr. Micawber. They reach the corridor in a few strides, Anon limping noticeably.

McCoy does notice, and shortens his stride. "We can go slowly."

"Thanks. Again, thanks, Dr. McCoy." Anon tries again to wriggle out of her commitment. "Really, I should probably just …"

"I liked it much better when you called me Leonard."

"Oh." It's not that easy to wriggle out of something you really want to do. What's the harm in going to dinner and watching baseball. She had enjoyed those ancient baseball 2Ds. This is almost the same. "Um, I liked that, too. But can I do that? I mean, is it legal? I mean …"

"The captain calls me Bones. Behind my back, Nurse Chapel calls me the Bachelor Uncle, and Dr. Rollins calls me the Old Curmudgeon. It's all legal. Please, we're off-duty, so it's Leonard."

"Leonard. Call me Soli. Like you did earlier."

"Yes, milady, Soli." McCoy has just upped the ante. "Where do we dine tonight? Officers' mess?"

Anon freaks out. "Geezum no! I couldn't! The regular mess? The big lounge?"

"The lounge," McCoy declares. "We can pick up where we left off, so I can show you The Catch, the very most elegant double plays across the centuries, and some truly appalling pix of pitchers' arms. Even worse than your elbows this morning. Very cool."

"Appetizing, I'm sure, Leonard."

"No, not really. But very cool."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Hours later, in the lounge, the remains of a meal on the table, McCoy and Anon are almost prone in their seats, clutching their sides. Just as she had feared, the evening was great fun.

"Those were called blooper reels? Too funny. Even better than a pantole concert. I'd love to see more, Leonard, but I absolutely have to get to my quarters, before I turn into a pumpkin, whatever that means."

"It means you're under a spell that will break and change you back into whatever you were before the spell was cast. Who would that be, Soli?"

"Oh. Geezum I don't know. Janay always says that when I say I have to leave before I fall asleep. She says I'll turn into a pumpkin."

"It's from a fairy tale." McCoy yawns. All this talk of sleep. He could use some. "You must know the story. Cinderella."

"A Terran story, right? Do I look like a Terran? I was raised in a cave on Ktak and then on Bolarus. I don't know from no stinkin' Terran fairy tales, Leonard."

McCoy doesn't even try to parse all that. "Most fairy tales are lousy bedtime stories anyway, so I won't share it now. But I will be a gentleman and escort you home. To your quarters, milady?" He offers his arm, and this time she takes it without hesitation.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

As they approach Anon's quarters. McCoy slips his arm from Soli's grasp and slides it around her waist. Mr. Slick. She audibly gasps. He yanks his hand away; she replaces it. That was nice. Dangerous but nice. They continue walking silently, eyes front. They reach Anon's quarters, and she codes open the door.

"Thank you for a lovely evening, Leonard. I … You …" She finds herself pressing against him. How did that happen? She never even imagined doing that before, and here she is doing it.

"Can I see you tomorrow?" McCoy hasn't been avoiding intimate contact for a quarter century, but it nevertheless has been far too long.

Anon is short of breath, and this time it isn't the emphysema. "Yes, please. I mean, of course. I mean, I don't know. Tomorrow?" With a visible effort of will, she pulls back and straightens up. There. "Tomorrow is Movie Night. I am officially inviting you. You're definitely science-geeky enough for us. It's a silent, so I have to play accompaniment on the keyboard. It will end early enough for us to do something after … if you want."

"I want." He brings her close again. Mr. Smitten.

Anon starts to reach up to his face, then comes to herself. She abruptly pulls away and trips backward through the doorway, then belatedly tries to regain her dignity. "Tomorrow then. Movie Night. And whatever. Good night." The door closes.

"Tomorrow." He stares at the door for a moment, runs through his various idiocies of the afternoon and evening. "What am I, fourteen? Get a grip, McCoy. You know better." He pulls out his tricorder, leans against the wall, punches keys. Easier to think about work than … you know. That other thing he was thinking about. Focused on his tricorder, he walks back the way they came. Maybe he should be thinking about that other thing he was thinking about and is trying not to think about. Because how can that other thing possibly happen when one of the parties involved cannot be touched?

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

In her quarters, Anon is a caged beast pacing. She runs through all the Ktak curses she knows, then switches to Standard, in which her curse vocabulary is quite limited. "Dammit, dammit, dammit! What are you doing, Soli Anon! What is happening! Geezum! You dope! You freak! You could've just gone to your quarters. Everything was fine, and now … I don't know what to do, I don't know what to do. I can't …"

She goes to the wall console, stabs at it.

The computer states calmly, "Lieutenant Andersen is not in her quarters."

"Computer. Send a message for when Andersen gets back."

"Ready."

Anon sits on her bed, and leans back. Her voice is trembling. "Janay, I need to talk to you. I don't … What's your first shift tomorrow? Can we meet for breakfast? I have to tell you what …" Suddenly she is asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

**Section 5: It's Complicated**

 **Chapter 5a: (Suddenly I'm) Helpless**

It's 0500 hours, and Anon is in her quarters, wearing ear buds and in front of her computer, still in her clothes from the day before, hair wild and disheveled. She takes out the ear buds, stands stiffly and stretches painfully, goes over to her console.

"Computer. Messages?"

Like many people in Starfleet, Soli wonders idly whose dulcet tones they chose for the computer's voice. "Orders from Sickbay. Yesterday. 1600 hours. Report to Sickbay at 0800 hours for replacement of O2 pack and lung biopsy. Cleared to participate in lab work detail, regular hours. Cleared to participate in all regular forms of physical training except pulmo-cardio. PT therapist will develop temporary reduced regimen.

"Message from Andersen, Janay. Today. 0100 hours."

Andersen's voice, "You fell asleep again while you were talking, didn't you. Remember to change your clothes, Rock Head."

Anon looks down at her clothes. "Not again." She starts pulling them off frantically.

Andersen's voice continues, "Glad you're back home safe. My shift starts early, yours starts late according to orders I got from Sickbay, so breakfast at 0600 hours? I know you'll be up, but I'm going to be dragging. I do want to hear what's got you so upset, though, so I'll be there. Love you."

"Love you too." She starts getting dressed.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Anon is already in the Mess Hall when Andersen arrives. Andersen blanches at the sight of her friend's purple forehead and temple.

"Soli, my poor sister, you look like … You have …"

"I know, I know. The anti-bruise didn't work. No, that's not right. It was a … coagulant. Didn't work. So I'm a mess. You can say it."

"You're a mess," Andersen says tenderly. "There, I said it. Does it hurt? It looks like it hurts. But you're basically okay? What happened anyway? I thought you were going to call me early on, and then I went out and well never mind about that. What happened?"

Anon reluctantly tries to explain. "I'm basically okay. Some weird life form that wasn't alive invaded my body, and … Janay, you know how I don't really dream?"

"Yah, you said you just re-run the day while you sleep."

"I re-ran yesterday in my sleep last night." Anon pulls at her hair. "That part was awful. Can we talk about it some other time when it's not so fresh?"

"Of course, honey. Stop pulling your hair. So that wasn't what was so upsetting to you last night."

"No. Maybe it was nothing. I'm sorry I bothered you."

"Soli Anon!" Andersen rolls her eyes. "You did not leave that message because it was nothing. Spit it out. You said you have to tell me what … then you fell asleep. Tell me what."

"What happened."

"That's what I'm asking you! Come on, Soli." Even if she hadn't had a late night, Andersen would be losing it.

Anon spits it out, rapidly, in a monotone. "What does it feel like to want to kiss someone?"

Andersen's mouth is agape; for once, she is at a loss for words. Then she finds some. "You wanted to kiss someone? You?"

"I think so, yes. Badly. Desperately. How does that supposed to feel?" Her hard-won Federation Standard syntax has abandoned her.

"Well, how did it feel to you?"

"I couldn't breathe. My stomach hurt."

"Your stomach hurt?" Andersen's eyes are wide, and she leans in close. She doesn't want to miss a word of this. "Or lower?"

Anon thinks a bit, and runs her fingertips tentatively from her sternum to her crotch. "Lower."

Andersen chortles. "Oh, girl, you wanted more than a kiss. Who was it? It was McCoy, wasn't it? I knew he was checking you out. Did he seduce you? No. No, that couldn't happen. He's the least seductive person I've ever known. Good-looking enough but completely, totally awkward with women. So who was it? Who did you want to kiss? Whom?"

"Stop it, Janay. I'm serious. It's not funny."

Andersen instantly changes her tone. "I'm sorry, honey. I'm … surprised is all. I'm listening, honestly. Who, and what happened?"

"It was McCoy, okay?" Anon grumbles. "Maybe I was just grateful for everything, glad to be alive, you know? But we spent hours and hours together. We talked about music, well, I talked about music. What else? He talked about baseball, and he explained about tendons in the elbows and rotator cuffs, and he showed me split fingers for pitching and ..."

By now Andersen is resting her head on her fists. This is the most disappointing seduction story she has ever heard. "That would get my heart to pitter-patter."

"Well, I thought it was fascinating," Anon protests. "We talked and listened and listened and talked, and we laughed a lot. I almost lost track of time, and he put his arm around me …"

"And you thought you were going to melt. Right through the floor." Andersen encourages.

"I did. I get breathless just remembering." Anon pauses and takes a deep breath as evidence. "He didn't seduce me. He didn't even flirt with me. If anything I tried to flirt with him. That was embarrassing." She cringes at the memory. "But it didn't work so I stopped. You know, I don't do flirting."

"Yah, I do know, but I would have loved to hear you try. So if he wasn't flirting, which I surely believe, then how did you get to lust."

"Geezum, Janay."

"That's what it was, Rock Head. It's a lovely, powerful, overwhelming feeling." Janay smiles at her own fond memories. "You've had plenty of opportunities before, and you felt nothing, right? What was different? What did the Boyfriend say or do to knock you off your feet?"

"I don't know!" Anon's voice cracks. "Nothing! He … No. Wait. I do know. He gave me an OP/A injection to help with pain, and told me I'd be foggy. That had to be it. I let my guard down."

"You let your guard down, and your libido escaped." Janay's fingers dance across the table in illustration, and then wave bye-bye. "Oopsie. It's never going back in, honey."

"Well, it has to." Anon's face is grim and determined.

"I had figured you were asexual," Andersen muses. "Or that maybe you needed pheromones

produced only by the male of your species. But now …"

"I can't do this." Anon wails. Several people turn to stare at her, and she lowers her voice. "So how do I get past it?"

"What do you mean, you can't do this? It's completely natural to feel like this. Why the hell do you want to get past it? And don't tell me it's the touch thing that you can't talk about."

"It is the touch thing, and I can't talk about it."

Andersen throws up her hands in frustration and slams them on the table, indifferent to eavesdroppers. "You've been avoiding this conversation with me for years! Why won't you even try to deal with it? Why won't you ever talk about it?"

"I have talked about it, and I can't talk about it." She also can't make eye contact anymore.

"Yah. 'Bad things will happen.' 'It's just my species.'" Janay is on a tear. "Soli, that is BS. Every time you're afraid of something, you say it's your species and nobody can argue with you because nobody knows. But you don't know either. With the touch thing, Soli, come on, your species has to reproduce, like everybody else. They have to take care of children, treat injuries, comfort the forlorn. They have to be able to touch each other, and so do you. Quit lying about everything!"

Anon's head is bowed. Andersen waits for a response that doesn't come.

"That was harsh. I'm sorry to be harsh." Andersen fills the silence.

"I can't be lying if I never talk about it."

"Lies of omission are no better than the direct kind." Andersen is too pissed off to be tender.

"I don't know what to do." Anon looks up at Andersen, pleading.

"Do something. Anything. Soli, listen, sex is fantastic. You would love it. It's way past time. You're twenty-six!"

"Thirty-five."

Andersen falls silent once more. Then: "You're full of surprises today. Thirty-five. Really? Another secret."

Anon hangs her head again. "I'm sorry. It never came up, but still … I am sorry."

"Oh, it did come up. The first time I called you 'Little Sister,' that was it coming up." Andersen pushes herself back from the table. "Well there you are. I'm sorry, too. I don't know what to say. We are friends. Sisters. But if you can't even try to be open with me, I can't begin to help you with this. I'll tell you one thing. If he is as hot for you as you are for him, you either go with it or, face it, girl, cause a world of hurt for both of you. But you sure can't do nothing."

"I can't go with it!" For all the emotion behind her words, Anon's voice is a whisper.

"Yah. Then you are in for a world of hurt. Gotta go to lab." Andersen stands up, and looks down at the burning pile of pain before her. Her face softens. "Love you still, sister, love you always."

"Love you back. I invited him to Movie Night tonight, by the way." She hangs her head again.

"A senior officer at Movie Night. Wonderful. Just what I never wanted, as if you didn't know. Perfect."

Andersen takes her tray of uneaten food and dumps it, and she storms off. Anon stares at her food, also untouched.

"Maybe he won't come. Maybe I won't come. I have to come. Dammit."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Anon has to enter Sickbay in a rush, lest she fail to enter altogether. She had been too distracted to look up "biopsy," as she had intended. But with or without consenting to it, whatever it is, she wants a replacement O2 pack. An actual medical thingie that actually makes her life better: she has to wrap her head around that concept. So she bursts through the door.

She looks around and spots Rollins. "I'm Ensign Anon. I got orders to report to Sickbay for an oxygen pack and a biopsy?"

"Yes, of course. Get yourself settled. I'm Dr. Rollins. I'll get that O2 pack swapped out in an instant."

Another doctor. Crap. "Is Dr. McCoy here? Or Nurse Chapel. They took care of me yesterday."

"Dr. McCoy is in surgery," Rollins answers. "I'll be doing the biopsy. Nurse Chapel should be here any minute. Meantime you have a couple of choices for that biopsy: We can give you a local anesthetic, or general anesthesia, whatever makes you comfortable."

"I don't know what a biopsy is. I don't think I want to do it."

"It's just getting a tissue sample, so we can test the media for growing new lung tissue," Rollins explains patiently. He has been warned about her idiosyncrasy. "You have emphysema. None of us has ever seen that. You went through quite an ordeal yesterday. But we can get some replacement tissue going, and there you are, good as new."

"Uh-huh. What are you talking about?"

Rollins tries again. "Emphysema is a chronic, degenerative lung disease. It does not improve on its own, and you would have to receive a medical discharge from Starfleet if we did not treat it. But we can treat it by growing new tissue, using a plug of yours as a starter. It will take longer than we'd like, since we have no stem cells of yours to help out, but before you know it, you'll be fine. You know, while you're in Sickbay, I'm thinking we could take advantage of that and …"

"Shut up, Rollins." Chapel has entered during the last part of the explanation.

"What? Hey, Chapel, you don't even know what I was going to say." Rollins pushes back. "I think …"

"Everyone knows what you were going to say."

Anon hugs herself and sighs. "Brain scan." Rollins stares at Anon, then at Chapel.

"Dr. McCoy gave orders last night." Chapel informs him. "Check your messages. No brain scans. We have eight of them if you really need to look at one."

"Okay, okay." Rollins is deflated and turns back to Anon. "Have you decided on the anesthetic option?"

"I don't want either. Can't I just put up with it until you're done?"

"Ensign, Soli, dear." Chapel zips seamlessly from formal to maternal. "A bot will be put on your tongue, make its way to your lung, snip a tissue sample, and come back out. People get pretty anxious, they can feel the bot and have a reflex to cough, plus snipping the lung tissue will be very painful. Really quite painful. Go easy on yourself."

"No. I can't do the drugs. I can stand whatever it is. I've had worse." We know this is true. She certainly has had worse. "I just don't want to be foggy again."

"There is no choice on the paralytic for the cough reflex," Rollins insists.

Chapel intercedes. "If you don't want an anesthetic for the pain, would you want to hold my hand? You can squeeze hard if it hurts, and of course you can change your mind, dear, at any time."

"Thanks, that might help, Yah." Anon is pretty sure it won't help her, but if it helps Chapel, she can oblige.

"Don't mind me. I'm just the surgeon here. Let's get it done. I'll strap you down …"

"No, please don't." Anon is back to her default position on all things medical.

"I cannot allow!" Rollins is shouting. A look from Chapel and he modulates to a whine. "I cannot allow you to have a lung biopsy, with no local, no general, and no way to keep you completely still!"

"No strap."

Chapel's turn again. Perhaps a wheedle will work better than a whine. "Soli, I know being around doctors makes you anxious, but you have to trust us. Dr. McCoy has every confidence in us, and you liked him, right? Dr. Rollins and I will keep you safe and well."

After a long think, Anon concedes to the inevitable. A Ktak argument result yet again. This is, after all, life in Starfleet. "Okay. Okay."

The straps go on, and Chapel begins the mantra. "Slow breaths, deep breaths, squeeze my hand. Slow. Deep. Squeeze." Anon is wearing her thousand-yard stare. She is elsewhere.

Rollins picks up the injector "All set? Paralytic first." He injects at the base of her throat. "That wasn't so bad, was it? It's effective for about ten minutes. Open your mouth. Here we go… Keep breathing. Stay calm, that's the way."

Rollins places a tiny chip on Anon's tongue. The bot propels itself down Anon's throat. Her hand clenches Chapel's, knuckles whitening. Anon gasps.

Rollilns's eyes are on the viewing console. "The bot is in your trachea. Try to breathe slowly. Okay, hold your breath now if you can. Brace yourself for the snip."

Anon slams her arms hard on the table. Chapel gasps. Rollins grunts. Vocalizations burst out of each of them in unison: "Mmph." "Oh!" "God!"

Rollins is gasping now, and he steadies himself by clinging to the console. "The … the bot is on its way out."

"That must have hurt a lot, Ensign," Chapel comments. Her forehead is beaded with sweat. "It felt like, like I could feel it myself."

"Geezum, I'm so sorry." Anon always had better control than that. Does her glove have a hole in it? She'll check later. "I should have … never mind. I'm done now? Can I go to lab?"

"Can you at least wait until the paralytic wears off? Such an eager beaver!" Rollins's jollity sounds forced because it is. The experience has been unnerving. "And let me confirm we got a good sample, then yes, of course you can go to your lab. You did very well, my girl. Very well. You should be proud of yourself."

Chapel cannot resist. "Thanks, Dad." Rollins smiles at Chapel, and shakes his head.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Later that day. McCoy is at the Sickbay records console, having just finished entering his notes from his day.

"Computer. Save for review tomorrow."

McCoy goes to the sink, washes his face, and rubs the top of his head vigorously. He sags into his chair and closes his eyes. Chenoweth, the night doctor on duty, enters and glances over at him.

"That was a long one," Chenoweth remarks. "You should get some sleep."

"I intend to." McCoy's eyes are still shut. "I'm going to Movie Night, and I don't want start snoring in the middle of it."

"Movie Night? Janay's thing?" Chenoweth is new but plugged in. "I've not been invited yet." In fact, she is far too cool to ever be invited to Movie Night.

"You have to be a geek to get an invitation, so I'm told."

"Aw, you're not a geek!" Chenoweth protests. McCoy opens one eye, then the other, and straightens himself in the chair. He looks askance at her.

"Let's be honest, Chenoweth. In the dictionary, the definition of 'Geek' reads 'See McCoy comma Leonard.' I know myself. It's all right."

Chenoweth smiles and shrugs her shoulders. She really can't argue.

"Anyway, Soli Anon invited me."

"Anon. Your patient from yesterday?"

"Yes." McCoy adds, "She and Andersen do it together."

"She must be the music person. Didn't know her name. Everybody knows Janay. I've heard it's a good time."

"Soli … Anon is her friend. I hope it's a good time." McCoy yawns. "I could use it."

A brief, companionable silence follows, as the duty shift changes gears smoothly, McCoy finishing up, Chenoweth coming in. She is perusing the log of the day's activities.

"Why don't you go rest up," Chenoweth suggests when she is finished. "I'll let you know if there are any further complications."

"Thanks, Chenoweth. Don't take offense, but I hope I don't see you later." McCoy stands, stretches, rubs his head again, and heads for the door.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

It's 1800 hours in the movie lounge. Some forty to fifty people are milling around, chatting, stuffing their faces with snacks, grasping bags with "MN" labels. Anon and Andersen are in the center back of the lounge. A large screen is at the front.

"He still hasn't come," Anon frets.

"Maybe you'll get lucky and last night will turn out to have been just some enchanted evening." Andersen has mostly recovered from her umbrage, and deliberately uses a song quote to lower the tension between them.

For once Anon doesn't react. "Maybe. That would make things a lot easier."

"Anyway, we have to get started." Andersen raises her voice to a bellow. "Listen up people. We have only three rules. One – Throw popcorn at the villains. Two – Throw rice at the lovers. Three – if you leave before everything is cleaned up, you are banished evermore from Movie Night. Banished, banished, banished! Are we clear?"

Most of the crowd has obviously been through this introductory routine before. They yell as one, "Crystal!"

Andersen continues, "Tonight's silent feature is _Nosferatu_ , accompanied as always by the lovely and talented Soli Anon."

The crowd cheers; Anon stands and makes a sweeping bow. This also is clearly a familiar ritual. Anon sits back down at her keyboard, takes a deep breath, coughs just a bit, and stares at the screen.

Andersen hollers, "Lights, camera, action!" The lights dim, the movie flickers to a start, and Anon begins her accompaniment. Within moments she is lost in her music and the 2D, and although she is unsmiling, she looks serene.

McCoy enters. Light from the doorway slices across the lounge. Several boos and rude comments are heard. Flustered, he steps away from the door so it will close. Andersen hurries over to him.

If a whisper can be indignant, Andersen manages it. "You can't just barge in! You need an invitation. Oh, it's you." She finally recognizes him in the flickering light. "Well, you're late, Doctor." She tips her head in the direction of Anon, whose eyes remain fixed on the screen as she plays.

McCoy finds a seat near Anon. She continues to watch the screen as she plays; he watches her. Andersen comes up behind him.

"The movie's over there." Andersen points to the screen.

McCoy, startled, accidentally kicks the seat in front of him, which fortunately is unoccupied. He looks at Andersen, then resumes watching Anon.

"I know that, Andersen."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Movie Night has concluded. Some people are leaving in groups, others are pairing up, including Andersen. As she walks out, she steals a glance at Anon and McCoy. They are sitting in the places they had spent the movie, but are facing each other, Anon holding her encased keyboard like a shield.

McCoy is complaining. "I don't see why I had to stay to clean up a mess that was not of my doing."

"It's the rule," Anon explains. "You were late. If you'd been on time, you could have picked up some popcorn and rice and made your own mess. It's very therapeutic. So what did you think of Movie Night? Did you have fun? I hope you had fun, in spite of clean-up."

"I have to confess. I was watching you, not the movie." McCoy leans in towards her. "I was mesmerized. You were really good."

"I love to do it." Anon smiles shyly. "I get so engrossed, I'm blind to everything else. Didn't even notice when you came in, I'm embarrassed to say. Sorry."

"No, I was late. I fell asleep after my shift, and suddenly found myself racing around like a mad dog, trying to get to your club in time, but I missed the start even so."

"Your shift." Anon knits her brow. "Was that the surgery on poor Mr. Kevintek? Is he okay?"

"He will be. Tough couple of days, though." McCoy's eyes are shrouded, remembering.

"Can I visit him?"

"Visit him?" He looks at her in surprise. "Of course you can. I didn't realize you were friends."

"Never met him before yesterday. But we have something in common now. Janay always says to find common ground to become friends. Is he awake?"

"Might be. Or on the verge. I can check with the doctor on duty."

"I'd like to sing to him," Anon explains. "That helps, a lot of times."

"What would you sing?" McCoy can't resist following where this leads.

"Remember, I listened to every recorded Vulcan song? I didn't understand all the categories, nor a lot of the words, but two of them were lullabies. Maybe his mother sang them to him when he was a baby. He might like to hear them." She stops, and looks away. "I don't know. Said out loud it sounds silly."

"It doesn't sound silly at all. Let's go lay some musical healing on that boy. Doctor's orders."

They stand and head off to Sickbay. Anon smiles to herself, but McCoy catches a glimpse.

"What's that smile for?"

"Just thinking. You surely did deserve an invitation to our geeky Movie Night. I suggest something silly, and you double down on it." Her smile has grown to a goofy grin, and she sings. "Yes, forward on the foe! Yes, forward on the foe! Yes, but you don't go. We go, we go." She's marching forward and reverse per the lyrics. McCoy gapes at her, astonished. A crewman enters the corridor, and she stops in embarrassment. "Geezum." McCoy grabs her hand confidently. There is no spasm of alarm from Anon this time. They go, they go.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Having arrived in Sickbay. McCoy and Anon enter the ward where Chenoweth is sitting with Kevintek. His eyes are closed, but his color is better than it was the previous day. (Better for a Vulcan, that is. Greener for most other species would not be better.)

"How's our patient?" McCoy greets Chenoweth.

"Stable. Liver is measurably better in every category. Good work, McCoy."

"Dr. Chenoweth, this is Ensign Soli Anon. She's the Movie Night music lady I mentioned to you. And my … my friend."

"Nice to meet you, Doctor Chenoweth."

"And you." Chenoweth smiles warmly. Gossip travels fast in Sickbay.

"Can I sing?" Anon's conversational capabilities have a very narrow range.

"Down, girl." McCoy is amused and explains to Chenoweth, "The Ensign is the other person who was afflicted like Mr. Kevintek, obviously not as severely. She feels a bond, wanted to visit and to sing to him."

"Well, now, that's unusual." Chenoweth raises her eyebrows, intrigued. "Folk medicine? Go ahead, Ensign."

"Thanks."

Anon sings two short, grim songs in Vulcan. In the middle of the second song, Kevintek opens his eyes and watches her until she is finished.

"For a moment, I thought you were my mother. Thank you." He smiles. Actually smiles. Then he closes his eyes again.

"Rest, be well, and get strong, Mr. Kevintek," Anon murmurs.

"We should go," McCoy says. "Thank you, Chenoweth."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Once they reach the corridor outside Sickbay, McCoy stops short and turns to Anon.

"Well I'll be! I never saw a Vulcan just smile before! What were those words?"

"I have no idea. I only look up the translations for songs I like, which means zero Vulcan songs. I just knew they were lullabies so probably soothing. Probably. I hope the words didn't mean something like, 'Go to sleep right now this instant before I smother you with this pillow.'"

"No! You don't actually think … Of course it is Vulcan." McCoy speculates. "Maybe that's how they teach the children to be stoic."

"Very possibly." Anon jumps in. "Or I could've made a mistake with the lyrics and turned a sweet lullaby into something a little naughty."

"He did have a smile on his face."

"But he said he thought I was his mother."

They make faces of mock horror at each other.

"I don't want to know!" Anon announces. (She is relaxed, which means she's heading into dangerous territory again.)

"How much time do we have before you turn into a pumpkin?"

"Two, three hours, tops."

"Here's what I'd like to do. Let's go to the main lounge, grab a meal. I haven't eaten since … not since this morning. No wonder that popcorn on the floor looked so good. So food, then I want to see that movie you quoted about how I'm so good-looking. My ego needs constant stroking."

"Poor baby. Really?" Anon teases. "I'm warning you. It's hilarious. Good thing the seats are waterproof."

"How so?" McCoy is being set up and walks right into it.

"It's one of those movies that when it's done, there's not a dry seat in the house."

"What! Oh."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

In the main lounge. McCoy and Anon are in a booth with trays of food in front of them, straining at the small screen before them.

"This is no good." Anon sits back. "I can't hear the dialog, and that's most of the movie."

"We could go back to the Movie Night lounge if it's available," McCoy suggests. "Otherwise we'd probably have to go to your quarters or mine."

Sharp intake of breath from Anon. (Danger Will Robinson!) "Let's try the other lounge."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

The Movie Night lounge was indeed available, and that's where we find them. Their trays are empty. McCoy's arm is around Anon's shoulder, she is leaning against him. Both are weak with laughter.

"Not what you expected, right?" Anon snuggles closer. There's no skin-to-skin contact, she reasons, so she's safe.

"Not what I hoped." McCoy pretends to pout. "I had hoped anything that inspired you to say how handsome I am would be less …"

"Ridiculous?"

"Well, yes. At the least. But I couldn't stop laughing. Lord, my sides hurt."

"How's your seat?"

"Soaking."

"Geezum!" Anon jumps up. "I'm such an idiot. I can tell when someone's lying, so why can't I tell when someone is joking?"

"That is not a character flaw. Come on." McCoy draws her back next to him, but now she's sitting upright.

"Do you have an Ant Elizabeth, like in the movie?" Anon inquires. "Or would she be an Ahnt Elizabeth?"

"Actually I do. But we call her Auntie Libby."

"Really? Do you have any pix of her? And the rest of your family, too?"

"Of course. Computer: show pix, Leonard McCoy extended family relations, four generations."

"On screen." A half dozen pictures are laid out on the movie screen.

"Who is who?" Anon is studying them hungrily.

"There's Pop and Maw, my father's parents. There's Grampy and Grammy, my mother's parents. Grammy outlived the other grandparents by a bunch of years, but died just before I graduated from Med School."

"She must've been so proud."

"She was." McCoy smiles fondly in remembrance. "Bragged all the time. Over there you see Auntie Libby, then my parents."

"You hadn't mentioned your dad."

"He died when I was three."

"Oh, Leonard. I'm so sorry. That's so sad. You weren't old enough to remember him. That was the Ktak's ideal age …" She catches herself and rushes on. "Is that a picture of you and your dad?"

McCoy didn't pick up on her verbal stumble, and smiles at the photo. "Yes. I love that picture."

"Look at the expression on his face. He adored you."

"And I adored him. You can see that, too. So, my Ma and me next. There's my sister, and her husband, and their kids, my niece and nephew."

"Names?" Anon demands.

"Names. Ma is Bonnie. My sister is Julie. Her kids are Alexi and Joe, Jr. Guess her husband's name."

"How could I know?"

"Seriously?" McCoy's eyes are mischievous.

"Yes, I'm serious! Wait, no. Joe, Sr. I'm an Idiot." Anon looks back up at the pictures. "Are you close to your mother? Your Ma?"

"Very. In fact, I messaged her last night that … "He breaks off.

"Last night? Yesterday was a tough one. What did you message her? If I'm being too nosy, you can call me out."

"I'll tell you. Why not?" (Lots of reasons! Shut up, McCoy. Don't do it.) "I messaged her that I met someone. Someone very special." (Now he's gone and done it.)

"That sounds lovely. Oh!" Anon leaps up, knocks over both trays, and backs away. "You mean me." She's breathing hard; even with the O2 pack she's struggling. "You can't mean me. You must mean me. Geezum. This can't happen. No."

McCoy stands, then sits again. "You know what she messaged me? She said don't rush it. Don't scare her off. Less than a day later, and I already made a hash of it. I'm sorry to spook you. Whooping cranes would be extinct if they courted as badly as I do."

"Is this something else Terran that I'm supposed to know that I don't." Anon's voice cracks, her hands clutch each other spasmodically.

"No. I'm trying to change the subject. So I can back off. Please sit down again." She remains standing, and actually takes another step back. "I'm so, so sorry. I'm mad about you, Soli."

"Leonard, I … You … You're …" He notices she has come back to him during her prolonged stammer. "Dammit."

"Dammit?" McCoy stands up, carefully. He puts his hands on her waist, gingerly.

Anon's hands reach for his face, caress it. He leans down, obviously to kiss her. She groans. "Aww. No. Don't". She turns away, pushes him back.

"I thought you wanted … I guess I read you wrong … Soli, I don't know what to say."

"No, Leonard, you read me right. I do want. It's just that … I can't."

"I can wait. I've waited forty-five years to find you." In his ignorance, McCoy is grasping at straws. "I can wait until you're ready."

"That's not it." Anon buries her head in his shirt, clings to him. McCoy, looking down at her, trying to figure out what to do next, finally wraps his arms around her. She moans and presses closer to him.

"Oh dear. Oh my." (In the midst of his dread and confusion, McCoy realizes he has just quoted the movie they had watched. The very words of the so-good-looking-without-his-glasses fellow, awkwardly embracing his distraught girlfriend. It must be the thing to do. As I said, wait until he has watched a few hundred movies.)

McCoy's rambling thoughts give Anon time to calm herself enough for the third eyelid to recede. (You knew that was what she was trying to hide, right?) She pulls back, shaking him off, but taking his hands in hers.

"I was hoping it was the OP/A."

"What?"

"Yesterday. You said the OP/A would make me foggy, and it did. I thought that was why I nearly kissed you last night. But it wasn't the OP/A. It was you. I want to kiss you because you're wonderful and interesting and kind and sweet and funny and …"

"And so good looking without my glasses." McCoy reminds her.

"And so good looking without your glasses." A shaky smile.

"Come on, darlin'. Let's get you back to your quarters."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

On the walk to Anon's quarters they haven't exchanged a word, although McCoy's arm is around her shoulder and her hands are clinging to his. They separate as they reach the door, and she codes it to open.

"Will I see you tomorrow? Lunch? After your shift?" McCoy is subdued.

"I don't know. Maybe. I'll have to check. I'd like … Maybe. I don't know."

McCoy lifts her hand to his lips, kisses the back of her hand, releases her. "Good night, Soli Anon. Please forgive me."

"I'm the one who needs forgiveness. You've been wonderful. Good night, Leonard McCoy."

Anon enters her quarters. McCoy leans disconsolately against the wall, alone in the corridor.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Anon has changed into a nightgown and is sitting on her berth, muttering, haranguing herself mercilessly. (As she well deserves.) She leans back against her pillows and of course is suddenly asleep.

Two hours later, Anon awakens abruptly and sits up straight. She swings her legs over the side of the berth and stares at the message console. She stands and begins pacing as she so often does. She comes to a decision. (Yes, it is a bone-headed decision.)

"Computer. Voice message to McCoy, Leonard for when he next checks messages."

"Ready."

"Leonard, it's Soli. I'm so sorry, but I just can't see you anymore. I never expected anything to go this far. I don't mean to hurt you, and I hope you can forgive me."

Anon stares straight ahead. "End message."


	14. Chapter 14

**Section 5: It's Complicated**

 **Chapter 5b: Dies Irae**

The next morning, McCoy has just gotten out of the shower. As he starts getting dressed, he calls to the console.

"Computer, check for messages."

He listens to the calm, indifferent voice. "Records from Sickbay. Received today, 0050 Hours. Three patients since yesterday 1600 Hours, treated and released. No new admissions.

"Message from Anon, Solitaire. Received today, 0130 hours. Leonard, it's Soli. I'm so sorry, but I just can't see you anymore. I never expected anything to go this far. I don't mean to hurt you, and I hope you can forgive me."

McCoy stops short. He stares at the console heartlessly continuing to drone.

"Message from Sickbay. Received today 0220 Hours. Surgical patient woke, asked for food. Gave him ice. He kept it down. Gave him water. He kept it down. Thought you'd want to know. Promised you would check him first thing in the morning.

"No more messages."

McCoy's eyes are closed. "Replay message from Anon."

"Leonard, it's Soli. I'm so sorry, but I just can't see you anymore."

"Stop." McCoy slams the heels of his hands on his counter. "No. Goddammit."

McCoy finishes dressing in silence, then stalks out of his quarters.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Several hours later. McCoy comes out of surgery again and heads to the sink, glowering.

Rollins calls across the room. "All clear?"

"All clear, every organ system is working, more or less." McCoy shakes the drops from his hands, uses the dryer. "Next time he wakes up hungry, give him something to eat. Anything he wants."

"So glad to hear it, Doctor." Chapel's good cheer elicits only a grunt from McCoy. She gamely continues. "Ensign Anon just left, had the O2 pack changed again."

Not even a grunt this time. "How's the new growth, Rollins?"

"One of the media is working well." It's Rollins's turn to deliver glad tidings. "Not the one I'd laid a bet on but…"

"Stick to topic, Rollins."

Just the facts, Jack. No good cheer or glad tidings. Okay then. "The T79 growth medium was successful. We should have sufficient tissue for first transplant tomorrow, 1700 Hours."

"Schedule surgery for 0500 Hours day after tomorrow."

"Yes, sir." Rollins moves to the computer console.

"Was she going to lab?" McCoy aims his glower at Chapel. "Anon, was she going to her lab?"

"She said she was, yes."

"Back in ten." McCoy leaves Sickbay, picking up his pace as he enters the corridor.

Rollins looks at Chapel, shakes his head. "It was nice while it lasted, but the Old Curmudgeon has returned."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Anon is plodding down the corridor to Geo/Hydro Lab. She has almost reached the Lab door, when McCoy, slowing his trot, catches up and calls to her.

"Soli. Ensign Anon."

Anon shrinks and stops. She straightens as best she can and turns around. "Leonard. Dr. McCoy. You didn't get my message?"

"When is your lunch break?" He is a man of few words at the moment.

"What? Oh, at 1400 hours."

"Meet me in the lounge at 1400 hours. In the corner booth."

"Why?" Surely she has said enough. "I can't …"

"You can. You will. You don't break off a relationship by voice message. That's cruel. You know that. Tell me to my face, and tell me reasons."

"I can't …"

"Yes, you can. Good Lord. How old did you say you are?"

"I didn't say."

"No idiot word games, dammit. How old are you?" Brace yourself McCoy.

"Thirty-five."

McCoy is shocked for a moment – not what he expected to hear. Her records clearly said … oh, never mind about that right now. "How many of your boyfriends broke it off by message?"

"None."

"Exactly. None. And do you know why?"

"Yes, I do. Because I never had a boyfriend, so nobody ever broke up with me."

McCoy is really shocked now. "I don't believe you."

"What don't you believe?" Anon fluently expresses the rage that follows humiliation. "That I never had a boyfriend or that he never broke up by message?"

"You're brilliant and beautiful. You have had your pick of boyfriends."

"None of that is true," Anon scoffs. "That was the imaginary boyfriend who said all that. He has never existed."

"You're lying. We'll talk in the lounge at 1400 hours. See if you can be honest. I deserve that much."

"I'll be there. And I am not lying. And I am so sorry."

McCoy obviously is not listening and returns the way he came. Anon puts her head against the wall. Her eyes have the familiar clouded appearance. She whispers, "Damn you, McCoy. Damn you, Keeper. Damn me to hell. Why did I get into this? I knew it would be bad. I'm such a fool." When her eyes finally normalize, and it takes a long time, she takes a deep breath and enters the lab.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

At 1405 Hours, Anon enters the lounge and scans the room. McCoy is at a corner booth, the one where he and Anon listened to music and watched baseball footage. She flinches at the memory. There is an empty plate with a napkin on it pushed aside. He has a whiskey in his grasp, and he is scowling.

"Hey." She slides into the booth, across from McCoy, eying his tumbler apprehensively. "Is that a Scotch?"

"No. Jameson's. Irish whiskey. Goes great with the egg salad. You should try it."

"I … I have to go back to lab after my lunch break." She looks at the clock. 1406 hours. Damn. Already feels like an hour.

"I've been on since 0350 hours." McCoy is still scowling. "Surgery. Record keeping. PT. I'm done for the day. Unless there's an emergency. Then I'm on again. Let's hope there's not an emergency."

Even Anon can see this is not going well, and it's not going to get any better. "Leonard, I realize I handled this all wrong. I made a terrible mistake. Please, can you please forgive …"

"You made a mistake. Nothing like my mistake. I didn't see this coming at all."

"Please don't. I'm so sorry. I didn't realize… I made a mess of everything. You're the best. You'll find someone who deserves you. Not me."

"You haven't said one single thing that makes any sense."

"Are you drunk?"

"Not yet, but I intend to be. And I'll still be more cogent than you. So what's your excuse?" This is a McCoy she has not met.

"No excuses. I'm just very sorry." Her face has turned to stone, but her feelings are molten lava.

"I said I would wait for you." McCoy has to get it out. "You couldn't wait? You had to throw me over. Tell me why …" He stops and stares at her. Anon's eyes have clouded over again. This has happened more times in the last thirty hours than in the previous thirty years. "What's the matter with your eyes?"

"Nothing's the matter with my eyes. They're normal for my species. For me. For 'my people.' I'm not Terran, in case you forgot."

In spite of himself, McCoy leans in for a better look. Anon turns her head away. McCoy's scowl returns.

"You should just go. Whatever ails you it's poisonous and …"

Anon lunges across the table, seizes his face, kisses him. McCoy hears her: _I ache for you. I want you_. He senses himself reaching for her, feels her face under his fingers. He feels  his face under her fingers, his longing, his love, amplified by hers. One exquisite moment. Then, other voices intrude, other sights, other feelings, other sensations: _Right now, baby, not later_. Half-lidded eyes, brown, blue, green, yellow, strangers' eyes staring at him lustfully. Who are these people? _I taste egg salad, but you had the salmon. No, I had the egg salad._ A hand on his knee moving up his thigh and under his skirt. His skirt! _Let's go honey, we've got time to get it on but only if we go now_. Suddenly Anon pulls away, her face contorted in anguish and shame.

"What in god's name was that?!" McCoy's head is pounding, his grip on the edge of the table is the only thing keeping him upright. All the experiences buzz through his aching head. It felt like hours. It felt like hundreds of people. It felt horrible.

Anon is speaking rapidly and in a very low voice. McCoy tries to focus on her words.

"That's why I couldn't kiss you. You felt that. I was in your head. And you hated it. Everybody always hates it. Listen, Leonard. The lounge is silent. No one's talking. They felt it. We both were in the heads of everyone in the lounge, everyone in the ship for all I know. They heard our thoughts of love and, and lust, and everyone was pulled in. Look at all the couples dragging each other out." Her voice is strained and cracking, her eyes still blurred. "My fault. I shared you with, with everybody. With all of them. I'm sorry, Leonard. I'm so sorry."

McCoy partially stands. He sees individuals looking around in confusion, just like him; he sees couples rushing out, obviously trying to get a quick one in before going back to work – their breaks are over. He sits down heavily.

"I can see that. God dammit I could feel everything you just said. But what was it? What did you do?"

"I didn't deliberately do anything, I swear to god, Leonard. When I am … intense, and I touch someone skin-to-skin this is what happens. It. Just. Happens. It has to do with my stupid big brain, it communicates neurally, I don't know how, but suddenly I'm in your head, in everybody's head, and everybody is in my head, and everybody hates it, hates me for being there. That's why it's impossible, Leonard. Don't you see? Talk to me!" The stammer would be better than this torrent of words. She forces herself to stop.

McCoy is a thousand miles away. "I felt you. Then I felt them. I heard them. It gave me the creeping horrors." He returns. "And a headache. Damn, Soli, why didn't you tell me before? I would have listened. We could …"

"You say that. You believe it. But you're wrong. You would insist I show you, and we'd be right where we are now."

"Major difference being you would have told me before showing me." It's good her vision is blurry so she can't make out the outrage on his face. "Does Janay know?"

"God no. Nobody knows."

"Your best friend. Your sister." McCoy's disgust is palpable. "You didn't even tell her?"

"No. I couldn't."

"Oh, you could. You chose not to. I'm completely sure it's come between you more than once. It would have to. Try telling her. But as for me, just stay the hell away."

Wordlessly Anon stands and leaves, stumbling into tables and chairs with her impaired vision. McCoy does not watch her go, but pushes the whiskey away.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Anon doesn't return to the Geo/Hydro Lab until her eyes have cleared reliably, but that isn't enough to deter Andersen.

"You look horrible." Loving words, and said so cheerfully.

Anon makes a beeline for her workstation. "Thanks so much." (She is not talking about this. Not.)

"Did you have a fight with the Boyfriend?" Andersen has to rub salt in the wound. "Can't say I didn't warn you."

Anon distracts. "He has a name, you know."

"Yeah, but you know the idea of dating a superior officer makes me uncomfortable."

Anon diverts. "He's not my superior. He just outranks me."

"Technically, in some ways he's even Kirk's superior, so please spare me." Andersen recognizes Anon's feeble and familiar efforts at avoidance. Her voice turns syrupy. "But whatever you want to call him – Leonard, Sweetie-pie, or Mr. Love-in-his-pants …"

"Geezum, Janay! Stop it!"

"To me he's either the Boyfriend or Dr. McCoy." Andersen shakes her head. "Never mind now. We have work to do. Let's talk after shift."

Anon dissembles. "I'd rather not talk about it."

"All the more reason to. We'll meet in your quarters; I'll bring the alcohol and the chocolate."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

McCoy never did drink the Jameson's, a tragic waste of the smoothest whiskey in the galaxy. He returned to his quarters, slowly and carefully read through Anon's records, and having finished, he pushes his chair away from the console. He rubs his eyes.

"Nothing. Twenty years of useless medical records, useless psych records. Spock would have her academics… No, that would be useless, too."

He stretches, gets up and leans against the counter, as is his wont when he is pondering.

"No neural conditions observed. Only the brain density and extra convolutions. Eight useless scans. And her eyes. A human would be crying. That wasn't crying. It can't be the first time in twenty years that she was in distress. Somebody must have noticed. But no mention of …"

McCoy sits down at the console again.

"Computer. Show me the complete record of the intake and annual physical examinations for Solitaire Anon on Bolarus IX. Not the summary, the supporting details. Authorization code T7A17W."

"On screen." McCoy starts scrolling, slowly at first, then faster. The pix. The tests. The interviews. More tests. Corrections and updates and possible reasons for unlikely conclusions.

"A freaking lab rat. Except a rat's responses would be honestly recorded. Not disregarded. Not altered. Altered! Research, my ass. At least they used crisp, clinical language, I'll give them that." He presses on his temples. "Computer. Message to Spock. Spock, McCoy. I've been looking at old records of one of your people. Solitaire Anon. There are … misleading summaries, not justifiable from the data. Would you check her early academics as well? From Bolarus IX, not the Academy. Academy records are adequate for now. I'd like to know what you think."

McCoy leans back in his chair. He had seen the cryptic note: "Epidermal hypersensitivity disorder. Refer for counseling." That was a description, not a diagnosis. A psych referral from the med department should have had some kind of follow-up, a resolution, but there was nothing more. Seven words. He has the authority to read her psych records, but he has never intruded on a patient's privacy in that way, and has no intention of starting now. Especially now. Still, he needs to know: Did anyone ever investigate the strange phenomenon he experienced a few hours ago? Seven words.

He sends another message, really fishing this time, to the head of the Enterprise's Counseling Section. "Computer. Message to Tepem. Tepem, it's McCoy. I've been looking at old records of one of our blue shirts. Solitaire Anon. She was referred for counseling by the med department on Bolarus IX, concerning what they called 'Epidermal hypersensitivity disorder.' There should have been some resolution in her med records, but I can't find any. Can you check her psych history for that? It was eighteen years ago. I'm sorry to have to send you into the weeds. Thanks."

McCoy stands up again, assumes the position. Here we are in arithmetic. Add nine years to all her milestones. First menses at twenty-five is years past normal for humanoid species. Was she malnourished then? Is she currently malnourished – he knows she has been oxygen-deprived. Does she have an unusually long life span, or an unusually short duration of fertility? What is the state of her health beyond the typical measurements?

He lifts his eyes to the ceiling as though the answers are there. They aren't, so he looks down again and shakes his head.

"Face it, Bolarus, Soli Anon was just an oddity, a curiosity. That poor child. Got you some awards for describing a new species. Cleaned her up, combed that rat's nest of hair, fit her into a slot, and shipped her off to school. Did your duty. Which I would have known if I had bothered to read her records even somewhat closely. McCoy, you are a jerk."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

In her quarters. Anon alternates between pacing and sitting on the floor stretching her sore joints. A chime sounds.

"Come in." The door opens to admit Andersen, arms wide open with a bottle in one hand and a bag in the other.

"As promised, Rock Head, alcohol and chocolate." Andersen waves them over her head.

"You know I can't drink."

"Yah, so you say, but I can. I'll drink for both of us. Glasses in here?" She rifles through a cupboard, and pulls out a small tumbler. "I'm not going to try to cheer you up, by the way. Just want to keep you company. I've been there and cheerful just makes it worse." Andersen pours a glass of what she has brought. "In case you were worried, it's not Saurian brandy. Sure you don't want some?" She sits on the floor facing Anon, who shakes her head no.

"I'm sure. You were right, Block Head. A world of hurt."

"I know. Tell me."

"I will. But I have to tell you something else first." Anon pops to her feet, paces away four steps, back four steps, sits cross-legged on the floor again. "I have to. Should've told you years ago."

Andersen's eyes are huge. "The no-touch thing?"

"Yah."

"Whoa. I'm listening. What happens if I touch you?" Andersen reaches for Anon's face, the only uncovered part of her body. Anon evades the contact, but takes Andersen's hands and places them carefully in her lap.

"You don't have to touch me. You'll regret it if you do. I can show you, without touching."

Anon looks at Andersen impassively. For an instant Andersen doesn't move, then she leaps to her feet, knocking the tumbler over, batting at her head as though a swarm of bees was attacking her.

"O god stop it stop it! Get out!" She cocks her head, listening, and subsides. "Oh. It did stop. Better. Did you do that? How did you do that? Soli, what was that?" Andersen grabs the bottle and drinks without bothering with the tumbler.

"That was me. In your head."

"But what were you doing? How did you do it?"

"Talking. Listening. Med staffs everywhere want to know what my stupid big brain is for," Anon answered glumly. "Well that's it. That's what it does."

"Listening. Do you spy on people? Have you spied on me, Soli?"

"No. No!" Anon suddenly sees her friend is actually afraid. "Really, Janay, never. The only time I listened was when I was trying to learn a language. That was years ago, on Bolarus IX, when all I knew was Ktak and a little Ferengi. But not since …"

"How would anybody know? How would I be able to tell? You could spy and I'd never know."

Funny that Andersen makes this the main topic of their conversation, but having kept such a huge secret for so long, Anon must go where it goes. "Janay. All the stupid things I come out with. Do you think I'd be so, so ignorant if I was listening in on you? We joke about, 'oh she was raised in a cave,' but really, it's embarrassing. I'm not spying."

"You could." She tosses back another gulp.

"I wouldn't. I don't. Ask me when I'm in your head, and I'll tell you the same thing. It's impossible to lie. But you don't want me there, you know how you reacted just now."

"That's the way you acted when those non-life life forms were in you," Andersen reflects. "You were trying to get them out."

"You're right. I hadn't thought about it that way. Awful. No wonder everybody hates it when I'm the one in their heads."

"What do you mean, everybody? Who did you do that to?"

"Oh, the other zoo creatures. Remember I told you about them? A few others, but only by mistake."

Andersen waits a beat. "And the Boyfriend?"

"Yah," Anon mutters. "He hated it, too."

"Well, yah, of course. Flies in your eyes and hornets in your head." Andersen is the expert now. "How can you stand it?"

"I love it," Anon confesses. "I want to be in someone's head all the time and them in mine. It's normal for me, don't you see? But everybody else …"

"Spock does that mind meld thing. He might like it."

"He might." The conversation is weirdly disjointed, and yet not full of anger and outrage. Anon has an inkling that it might turn out okay. "Remind me to ask him."

"Hah. I see what you mean." Andersen drinks, and puts down the bottle, lays her hands in her lap. "Do it again."

"Are you serious? But you just …"

"Yah, I know. But it didn't last. I feel fine now. Maybe I could get used to it. Again, again!"

Anon smiles at her friend. "My dear Block Head. Okay." She looks at Andersen again, concentrating. Andersen lasts longer this time, then smacks her head with her open palm.

"Okay, done!" Andersen rubs her temples. "You said you love me. You showed me the time we met at the Academy. Clearer than I remembered."

"And I heard you say you love me back."

Andersen beams. "You did? I can talk to you?"

"Yah. That was wonderful."

"I wouldn't say it was wonderful. I couldn't say that. Bees buzzing, and I'm getting a wicked bad headache. But I could stand it." She drinks some more. "What? It might help. Again, again! Show me something I've never seen."

Same as before, Andersen's hands are in her lap; Anon is staring at her. This time Andersen sees Anon's point of view when she was on the Ferengi ship, watching the Ktak craft explode. Andersen jumps at the vision.

"That was your ship! It blew up! How did I know that was your ship? I just knew! Oh, Soli!"

"It's okay, Big Sister. Obviously I wasn't on it," Anon soothes her. "I had been rescued by those Ferengi. The ship was programmed to self-destruct if it was un-crewed outside of the Ktak system. So it couldn't be traced back to them."

"Whoa."

Andersen has recovered, and now looks thoughtfully at Anon. "I've been angry at you for five years about this. Did you know that? I loved you anyway, of course I know you know that, but I was incredibly hurt. We talked about everything else. Everything, hoo-boy. I get why you were scared to tell me – damn, no wonder you're jumpy as a rabbit half the time – but I'm so glad you finally did tell me. So glad."

"Really?" Anon scoots closer and squeezes Andersen's hands.

"Really." Andersen squeezes back. "I came here to keep you company after … you know. The Boyfriend. The Fight. Tell me what happened. You got in his head. He hated it."

"He hated me. You know how horrible it feels. It's worse when I touch the person, because I can't control it if I'm upset or just, you know, hyper. What happens is that I don't just … just communicate with the person I'm touching. I … I transmit all over the place. To everybody in the room, more even. I don't know how far. I knew if Leonard and I touched skin-to-skin … the whole ship would, well, participate."

"Whoa. Whoa!" Andersen drops hands, grabs and finishes the bottle. "Whoa. Some people would like that, I think."

"Yah, maybe. Not Leonard. Not me."

'Not me either. I may have a big mouth, but I like my privacy. So what did you do?"

"I broke up with him before anything like that could happen. Last night. By voice message."

Andersen looks at Anon with astonishment. "Slick. A Dear John letter."

"Excuse me, what's that? I never heard of it."

"It's what you did." Andersen rolls her eyes. "You were raised in a cave, all right. So if you broke up last night, when were you in his head?"

"This afternoon. During break." Anon bites her lip and sighs, then continues. "He wanted to know why I broke up, especially by message, and all I could do was babble, like a freak, an idiot, and he told me to just go away, and …" Anon rises and in an unconscious demonstration walks away from Andersen, who just waits. Finally, she turns around. "I couldn't stand that I'd never even kissed him and now I would never be able to, and … I just kissed him. So I was in his head. And so was everybody else in the lounge."

Andersen stares at her friend. "I'm speechless."

"So was everybody else in the lounge."

"Did they know it was you?" Andersen demanded. "You and the Boyfriend?"

"I don't know." Anon's back is against the wall and she slides down to sit on the floor once more. "Probably not. Anyway. Everything's a mess. You know what upset him the most? That I hadn't told him ahead of time. He asked if you knew, and I said no, and he said to tell you and so I did."

"Yes, you did. You finally did. How does that make you feel?"

"I'm so ashamed. I had promised Keeper, but I was still wrong. He was right. You were right. It wasn't the end of the world. You don't … you don't hate me. But he does. Even if we still broke up, it didn't have to be hateful."

"Go to him, Rock Head. Talk to him. Tell him what happened with you and me just now. See how he feels. How you feel. Don't just give up." Andersen notices Anon's slumping shoulders, and speaks more urgently. "Don't be ashamed. You made a mistake. You should've told me years ago, and you should've told him. Before getting in his head, not after. But I don't believe he hates you. Talk to him. Do it."

Anon nods, unconvinced. Andersen casts about for some way to hearten her. "Wait, wait, wait. First, do one more thingie for me. Sing Joy Upon Their Heads Shall Be, in my head. I want to hear what you hear."

"Oh, Janay, please not... All right, I'll try." Anon sorts through the possibilities. "You want to hear what I hear. Okay." Instead of the melody as she always had done, she sings the tenor line. Connected to Andersen, she also transmits the orchestra and the other vocal parts. At just the precise moment, she allows the high strings, gently raining joy upon their heads, to dominate the orchestration, because that is how she hears it. The rush Anon always feels becomes a part of Andersen's experience as she finishes.

Tears gush unselfconsciously out of Andersen's eyes. "You've been holding out on me, my little Muse. I finally get it. Tomorrow's Sing & Sculpt … bitchin'!" She wipes her eyes and lunges to her feet. "All I have to do now is find my way home. Hey! Talk to him, Rock Head!"

"I'll try, Janay. I promise."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Andersen slides through the door from Anon's quarters to the corridor, where McCoy is lurking, trying to get up the courage to press the chime. She spots him.

"You! The Boyfriend. Mr. Love-in-his-pants. What are you doing skulking in the hall?"

McCoy looks around. He's the only one there. "How's that?"

"I knew you'd be back. But I'm warning you, don't you dare break her heart. You'll have to answer to me, and it won't be pretty." Un-modulated and inarticulate as she is, Janay still makes her point.

"You are intoxicated." Thank you, Captain Obvious.

"Yes. Yes, I am. Highly. But I do know this: My Little Sister has spent her whole life trying to be somebody she isn't, when who she is is just a miracle. She deserves to be happy. And loved. Which she is."

"Yes, Andersen, you're right." When you're right, you're right, and she's right.

"Yah, I'm right." She weaves over to McCoy and jabs him in the chest. "Don't blow it, Mister. And you know, even if you can't get naked together, there are ways. There are always ways." Her eyes widen in horror as she remembers too late to whom she is speaking.

McCoy's remonstration is admirably mild. "I surely hope you don't remember this in the morning."

"Me, too, Doctor McCoy. Me too."

Andersen makes her way down the corridor. When she is out of sight, McCoy finally pushes the chime. A moment later Anon is at the door.

"What did you forget, Janay? Oh." She looks around wildly, but Andersen is gone. It's all on her, so naturally she makes a hash of it. "I was going to, um, I mean, I was about to …"

McCoy comes to her rescue. "I'm sorry. May I come in? We need to talk."

"Yah, we do. Please come in."

He passes through the door, and it closes behind them.


	15. Chapter 15

**Section 5: It's Complicated**

 **Chapter 5c: Who Are You?**

Anon is picking up the bottle, the tumbler, the chocolates, and generally fluttering about. McCoy notes the keyboard, out of its case and unrolled before the console. He ambles over to examine a clay sculpture that for some reason makes him feel sorrowful. Next to it is another sculpture of harsh lines and sensibilities. Now that he is in Anon's quarters, he cannot help thinking about the circumstances that led him here, as opposed to entirely different circumstances he had been hoping to lead him here. "We need to talk," he had said, but he doesn't know where to begin. Fortunately, Anon has stopped fluttering, and she is talking.

"I did what you suggested. I told Janay about … you know."

"I figured that out when we, uh, spoke in the corridor." Safe so far.

"She got pretty drunk," Anon apologizes.

"I figured that out, too. Not so drunk she couldn't tell me how wonderful you are. A miracle, she said."

"Oh geezum." Anon has no idea how lucky she is not to be the blushing type. "She loves me. She's my sister, almost. She's always saying stuff like that."

"I love you. I'm The Boyfriend, apparently. I only wish I said stuff like that, instead of what I did say. I was an ass."

"No. I should have told you. You were right. I love you, and I should have told you."

"Tell me now. Tell me everything, your life story. The real one, not the nonsense I saw in your records."

"My life story." Anon plops onto the floor. McCoy is not a floor-sitter. He lowers himself into the chair in front of the console, and leans forward, elbows on his knees. She scoots closer. "It's complicated and weird. It'd be faster and clearer if you can let me get in your head. Not like when I kissed you. That was because I was touching you."

"Back up, Soli. What do you mean? Try to explain, and I promise to listen."

She speaks carefully, trying hard not to stammer. "I can talk to you – be in your head – from a distance. _See?"_ He hears her neurally. " _Not touching. I am completely in control. Usually. Mostly."_ She resumes speaking aloud. "When we touch – skin-to-skin – I am mostly  not in control. It just happens, like, well, like when we kissed this afternoon. But we can communicate without touching, and it's private – no squatters. You can see and hear, and also feel, smell, taste what I show you."

"I think I understand," McCoy replies, apprehension vivid on his face. "I have to confess, it was, well, horrible. I hate to say it, because the first moment we kissed, before all the squatters as you call them, it was the most incredible moment of my life. Then, yeah, horrible. I'm sorry."

"I know. What I'm saying is: so long as I don't touch you, there will be no squatters, just us."

"I trust you. I do." And he does. By now he knows, Anon may be tortuously elusive, but damn, she's no liar.

"I love you." That's twice she said it. He can now establish a baseline of hope, and listens as she resumes. "Okay, so at first what you will see are Keeper's memories, I was too young to remember."

"Keeper? A real person, not a fable?"

"You did read my records, didn't you. A real person. A Ktak. She abducted me when I was three – yes, the same age you lost your father, the Ktak's preferred age for abductions because very young children can't remember their early lives – and so you won't see my memories for a few years."

"And she, Keeper, abducted you to put you in a zoo? That's what you told the Bolians. But why you?"

"My species was the only one the Ktak knew of with the same neural communication ability they had. The other zoo creatures were just randomly stolen, but Keeper snatched me so she could study my brain, see how it differed, matched up with theirs. That's why … wait, I'm getting ahead of myself." McCoy's brow is furrowed, and he has given up on the chair and joined her on the floor. "I was three when Keeper took me, okay? Here we go. When your headache is unbearable, tell me, and I'll stop and let you recover."

"How should I tell you?" Anon can see him wincing already.

"I'll hear you. I'll be in your head, right?" She smiles, takes a deep breath. Instantly…

No, not instantly. First a message from your buttinsky narrator. If you were paying attention during Chapters 1b through 1d, you already know everything Anon intends to show McCoy. Since it was from my point of view, I'll admit it may have been a bit distant, perhaps even cynical. Perhaps. And Anon ran through this quickly in Chapter 2a as well, as casually as she could manage, as you will remember if you bothered with Section 2. So we've already been through this part of her story twice, each in its own way. So in conclusion, or something similar to a conclusion, if you paid attention during Chapter 1b and/or during Chapter 2a, you can consider yourself well-informed.

However and But. We are finally going to hear from Solitaire Anon's private place now. It's painful, I know; it's honest, not cynical. And, yes, yes, it is repetitive, I admit it, a part of the story you already know. So if you don't want to hear the same story for the third time, I will not be offended. Move on to the next chapter. But if you like, or even love Solitaire Anon as much as I do, you just may be interested in her interior thoughts about her life experience. If you have any heart you will. If you don't, move on, a-hole. But if you do have a heart, listen to her story, told from her own heart. This is where I first realized how much I love this girl, messed up as she is.

Not to mention, if you did take particular note of Chapter 1a, you even know all kinds of important stuff that Keeper never shared with Anon, which makes you seriously on top of things and Solitaire Anon's own limited understanding of her life is even more poignant. So you dear readers who regarded all chapters as equally important, even without pix and chit-chat, you may continue at this point. You are prepared. The rest of you, go back to Page One, read and review all things both historical and herstorical, and vow to pay close attention evermore. Then, and only then, you may rejoin us here. Thus ends the pompous pontificating portion of this story.

So, Anon takes a deep breath and instantly…

From Keeper's perspective McCoy receives an Impressionist canvas of greens, browns, and grays; only two images are clear: a young child standing, and an even younger child, a toddler, being brought to the same area. Both children are naked, the older one clearly a boy and the toddler definitely a female. The vision narrows, and the toddler's face and stature are clarified. Purple eyes, brown skin, wearing an anxious expression as the adults (probably her parents) disentangle her fingers from their arms and set her down. As soon as the adults step back, the toddler disappears, and the vision ceases.

In McCoy's head, Anon elaborates _, "It took four tries to abduct me. Young children on my home planet were apparently carried around all the time, and Keeper didn't want to risk transporting an adult with the child. The last attempt she brought a year's worth of supplies to wait it out, and finally succeeded. Since it's Keeper's memory, we only see what she was paying attention to. I've never seen my parents' faces."_

Again from Keeper's perspective, McCoy sees that the toddler who disappeared from the planet has arrived in Keeper's spacecraft. She looks about wildly, stares at Keeper, opens her mouth and howls. McCoy and Anon suffer Keeper's growing irritation before giving in to the screaming toddler. All these years later, Anon communicates a certain smug satisfaction at having gotten her way. _"I simply must be held. I wailed in my cage but calmed when Keeper held me, so the whole trip back to Ktak, she held me to keep me quiet."_

Still from Keeper's perspective, McCoy sees a series of images, sometimes separate, sometimes overlapping, of the toddler, slowly growing older, being handed off to one set of hands, then another, then another. The hands belong to faces that are crinkled and fearful, but welcoming to the child. The hands hold the child tenderly; the faces nuzzle up to the child's contented face.

 _"For two years, I had to be continually held. Mostly, other zoo specimens held me."_

McCoy experiences a jolt of horror as he realizes, "My god, Soli, they're all humanoid! When you said specimens and creatures, I thought … Were they also intelligent?"

Anon shrugs her shoulders as she answers. _"Yah. I just always took it for granted. The Ktak considered us beneath them, but we were all capable of language, tool manipulation, learning, complicated emotions. We were lower animals to them, like how the Terrans think of the creatures in their zoos, because we weren't Ktak."_

"Where did the rest of them come from?" McCoy doesn't recognize any of the other species, neither from experience nor from his studies.

Anon pauses, thinks _. "I don't know. Primitive societies like mine. I never asked. They were pretty badly broken by the time I got there, no speech, incoherent thoughts, but they were still able to be kind to me. They held me as much as I needed. Then I guess I outgrew it. See, now I'm in my own cage."_

Sure enough, the vision shows the child, hardly bigger than when she was abducted, exploring a barred cage, pulling off strips of black material from the wall and popping it in her mouth, twisting it into interesting shapes, snapping it to make rhythmic noises. Another vision shows her at the front of her cage, fingers gripping the bars, eyes staring at the beings in their own cages.

"Wasn't that better?" The idea of being soothed by sociopathic humanoids gives McCoy pause. Surely she was safer in her cage.

 _"No, it wasn't. I still wanted to be held, or at least touched. Just didn't yell about it anymore_." Anon smiles at the memory. " _That was one of the things that Keeper said was in 'my nature.' I didn't fully understand what she meant until I got to the Academy and saw how many different behaviors are just in the nature of one species or another. I think that's really cool, but then, I'm a science geek._ "

From here on in, all the experiences are from Anon's perspective. To his horror, McCoy watches as a

humanoid male, moaning and screaming, repeatedly attacks his own hand, pounding it with his other hand, biting off his fingers, blood running from his cage to Anon's. She is stretching through the bars as far as she can, but cannot reach the male. Keeper eventually strolls in, shakes her head, and enters the cage of the hysterical male. He runs at her, snarling and waving his maimed limb, slashing at her with his good arm. She soon exits his cage to release Anon. Anon scampers across the space between the cages and reaches through the bars to touch and caress the male. He stops biting himself, but continues his unintelligible whimpering. Keeper re-enters the cage and begins medical intervention.

 _"I guess this was the first time I understood what the Ktak were. Their nature. One of them created an illusion that led to its maiming itself. Keeper kept the creature from dying, but needed me to comfort it, then later gave it another illusion to make the creature think the hand was still there. So hey, Keeper showed compassion, right?"_ She is not smiling now.

Neither is McCoy. He is sitting bolt upright at the vision, and he can feel the creature's pain as well. "Compassion? That was perversion. Torture. Did they ever do anything like that to you?"

 _"They tried, repeatedly, but I never saw any illusions, never reacted. If I touched other creatures, they couldn't see the illusions either. That seriously annoyed the other Ktak, but Keeper took advantage of that when someone was out of control like this poor guy._

 _"Plus Keeper tried to teach me how to create illusions, and she was disappointed that I could only see and transmit reality. Did my brain just block falsehoods, both receiving and transmitting? I don't know, but it's pretty consistent. When she's mad at me, Janay says I'm honest but devious. That sounds contrary, but …"_

McCoy drolly interrupts, "Not at all. I understand exactly what she means. When it comes to self-protection most people lie; you change the subject."

Anon smiles and sings, "La donna é mobile." Then she shakes her head. " _In my own demented way, yah. Anyway, around this time Keeper started to let me out of my cage most of the time. She feared the other Ktak would dispose of me because I wasn't any 'fun' and wanted to keep an eye on me. She even gave me …"_ She speaks aloud. "Your head is killing you isn't it."

"Yeah. Can we take a break?" McCoy bends over and massages his temples vigorously. He sits up again, rubs his forehead and the back of his neck, squeezing his eyes shut. "What were you just singing? What language was it?"

"It's Italian. It means Woman is fickle, changeable. Supposed to be fickle as in romantically unreliable, but to me it feels like my whole life, dancing around the truth."

Since Anon has stopped the images, she has been watching him; now she continues her story aloud.

"Keeper gave me a name, remember I told you in the HBC? She …"

McCoy interrupts. "A name? I don't remember your telling me any name but Soli. That was odd enough. I knew your name was Solitaire but you pronounced your nickname as Sew Lee, not Solly. Why is that, anyway?"

"From music. Soli – performed alone. I wanted my name pronounced like that when I learned the term. You're the first one who ever asked me about it. I love that about you."

McCoy is momentarily distracted and would kiss her if he dared, but he really doesn't dare. He falls back on the line of questioning he had started. "What was the name Keeper gave you?"

Anon smiles in fond remembrance. "716L. I told you in Ktak and Standard. And why did you ask my name if you already knew it?"

Now McCoy smiles in remembrance. "I was trying to get you to talk to keep you awake and alert. My bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired. Spock once told me that when he sees me coming, he gets a sudden, desperate urge to write his last will and testament."

"No!" Anon giggles. "He must have been joking!"

"Ah, no," McCoy answers. "I've known him a long time, and never heard him joke. Ever."

"Well, Janay got him to accept some whimsy in Geology Lab," Anon points out. "That has to count for something."

McCoy is impressed. "Yes, it does. Bless her heart. But be that as it may, whatever I said to you in the HBC, it seemed to work. You did talk to me even when you were not all there. So if you said '716L' it must have been when you were in really bad shape. That's a horrible name, by the way. I have case files with names like that."

Anon laughs. "I know, right? That's exactly what I told Keeper! She didn't want me to change my name because 716L commemorated the date when I arrived on Ktak. I told her she was sweet but she denied it."

McCoy's smile fades at that, and he tries with all his might to keep a neutral expression on his face, but his revulsion broadcasts from stem to stern. Commemorating the abduction of a child. Anon sees, and her cheerfulness disappears. "She was all I had, Leonard. I loved her. I still love her. She was a monster, but she was my mother. Children love their mothers, even when they're monsters. I promised not to tell about neural communication, and it kills me that I'm breaking that promise, but I love you and Janay even more than I loved her. Is that so hard to understand?"

In fact, it is too hard to understand for McCoy, like most everything else he has experienced today, so what the hell: 716L was a sweet, sentimental name. Okay, whatever. Where were they? He rubs his temples again, realizing he's finally beginning to recover, though just barely, and he encourages Anon to keep speaking aloud. "So you were Keeper's favorite little pet. How did that work?"

"I had some freedom, and I took advantage. I went from cage to cage, trying to make contact with the others. But as I got older, they hated when I got into their heads, even though I didn't torment them with illusions like the Ktak, just tried to talk to them. It was my first lesson that everybody hates what makes me feel safe. At least Keeper was always in my head, which was really nice." She steals a glance at McCoy, whose efforts to ease his discomfort are still evident. Anon continues with her verbal description. "Keeper taught me how to stay within myself, deep breathing and concentration, so I wouldn't automatically get in everybody else's head. For a bunch of years it worked, and I could snuggle and cuddle with them and not have a problem."

McCoy has settled down. "Are you better now?" She asks.

"Yes, I'm okay. Go on." He settles in, eyes fixed on Anon. She projects a new series of images.

 _Like a puppy in training, Anon is restrained in her cage when she attempts to follow Keeper everywhere. Keeper leaves the area, and projects images to Anon, which the child must reflect back to her trainer, then Keeper asks for details about Anon's surroundings and the activities of her fellow specimens, which the child must compose and transmit. Each time McCoy sees Keeper in these visions, she is farther away from the child, until he realizes Keeper is in a space craft training Anon in long-distance communication. He hears Anon's plaintive cry "Don't leave me!" when Keeper goes too far away to maintain contact, and feels the child's panic and agony at the abandonment._

Suddenly the images stop. Anon is slack-jawed and trembling. "Let's break it off. I forgot how hard it was when Keeper went out of range. That's like the great terror of my life: Don't leave me." She quiets; her head is bowed. McCoy waits. She recovers, lifts her chin, and speaks briskly as though there had been no interruption in her story. "So anyway, Keeper learned that 400,000 km is the natural limit of both the Ktak and my species' neural communication. She was disappointed, and decided to try to fix me so my range could be larger."

Anon begins to communicate neurally again, in this case the operation Keeper performed when Anon was ten. This vision lasts only long enough for McCoy to see Keeper approaching with a long, thick needle. " _Wait a moment."_ Anon is breathing heavily and talks aloud. "Sorry. Here I go again. After all these years it's still so upsetting. I was terrified. And after the operation, the natural limit was breached. Seemed any distance could be covered by my neural communication, which is what Keeper wanted, but I could no longer prevent neural contact upon touch. Every zoo creature avoided me after that. Keeper was all I had left. I kept working on controlling it, but I almost always got in someone's head if I touched them or they touched me. Still do if I don't supremely concentrate. So I don't … I can't touch anybody. Which you know now."

"Soli … "

"Yah, it stinks." Anon shrugs. "But I'm used to it. Want to see my surgical scar?" Anon abruptly lifts her hair to show McCoy the small lump of scar tissue on the base of her head that frames the white streak of her hair in back. McCoy comments on the streak. "You also have a white streak near your temple. I didn't see it in the images from when you were very small. Did you have some other trauma as well?"

For an instant, McCoy sees a set of fangs slashing furiously at him and ducks away, before he realizes that the bite was aimed at Anon the child. Anon the adult suppresses the image and apologizes. "Sorry, sorry. I try not to think about it, but yah, it was traumatic. Did I tell you the other creatures hated when I got in their heads? They really did. That was the last time Keeper let me into someone else's cage. I'm sorry you experienced it. I'll try harder to shut that stuff down."

"That's all right," McCoy replies. "What bothers me is that it happened to you. For me it's just a vision, but for you it was real."

Anon shrugs again, but notably takes several deep breaths before asking, "How are you doing, Leonard? Can you handle being in my head again?"

"Whatever you want," McCoy answers. "Whatever you can handle."

Once again, Keeper is shown entering the space craft and departing the planet Ktak. Beautiful visions of star systems and worlds that Keeper transmitted to Anon fill McCoy's head, as well as prosaic visions of the menagerie that Anon transmitted to Keeper.

 _"Listen."_ As if McCoy has a choice when she's in his head, but never mind _. "No more 'don't leave me.' No matter how far Keeper traveled, I could stay in her head, and she in mine. It was much better_." Although McCoy is not consciously sending out his feelings, his rejection of the concept of "better" being associated in any way with Keeper comes through loud and clear, and Anon changes the visual subject in a hurry.

Keeper is seated across from the child Anon. McCoy glimpses the gown in which Anon is now outfitted, and realizes this is significant. Inadvertently he thinks at her, " _When did she dress you?_ "

" _After she was satisfied that the operation worked. It was her way of placing me above the other creatures, though I would never be as high as a Ktak. On top of her having given me a name. I was so proud. I was such an idiot._ "

The vision continues, mostly via sound, Keeper explaining her advanced age, her fear that all the zoo creatures will die of neglect, her escape plan for Anon. McCoy hears the Ktak language in all its gorgeous complexity, and hears Keeper's mental voice in translation.

Now McCoy is deliberately talking in her head, and is pleased that he succeeds. _"That's the Ktak language? Why didn't she just use the neural route?"_

Anon smiles at his success as she answers. _"By this time, she was trying to make me as fluent as possible. I knew the language, I could understand everything, but she made me speak it constantly at this point. Not that it did any good_."

McCoy says aloud, "What do you mean? I heard you speak Ktak. I didn't understand a word of it but it was a lot like what you just projected at me."

Anon shakes her head. "Sorry, no. I had a terrible speech impediment. Keeper tried to teach me how to speak properly but I was hopeless. I was built wrong. Look at her."

Anon projects a bizarre vision of Keeper, mouth agape, demonstrating how to use her tongue to pronounce words correctly. Keeper's remarkable tongue muscularity and agility has McCoy in awe. Even though it's a vision, he draws close to Anon to see more clearly. "Can't you slow it down?"

"No," Anon answers. "It's a memory, and that's what it looked like. I can't do fakery. I can show you again if you want."

McCoy does indeed want a replay, and she shows him repeatedly until he is satisfied. Anon next projects a vision of herself in the space craft, then abruptly ends it.

" _Sorry."_ Anon breathes heavily again, wheezing, trying to regain her composure. "I forgot how awful this was. I had thought I would be able to go to my real home planet. So naïve. At the last minute, Keeper admitted that I couldn't speak Ktak well enough to direct the ship, which was navigated by verbal instructions. That meant the escape would be entirely automatic, random piloting. She had no idea where I might end up, just that it would be in Federation space. She impressed on me, really quite severely, never to reveal my neural communication, that some people will want to kidnap me and use my ability for their own purposes."

"Pot, meet Kettle." McCoy's lips tighten as he recognizes the source of Anon's obsessive secrecy.

Anon continues doggedly, not responding to his comment. "I don't know how many times the ship dropped out of warp into regular space, before finally encountering the Ferengi."

McCoy sees the interior of the Ktak space craft, the alert flashing that another vessel had been identified. Anon's little child hands pushed at buttons whose purpose McCoy could only vaguely know from the vision. Then he hears her child's voice clicking Ktak words, and Ferengi's corresponding chatter over the communication system.

 _"Keeper had told me to say "I come in peace" in Ktak, but it completely freaked out the Ferengi. I got scared and started listening and echoing back what they were saying to me, until I could finally make it clear I needed rescue from this ship that was going to self-destruct."_

 _"Listen and echo? How did you know to do that?"_ McCoy is impressed with her childhood, actually teenaged, resourcefulness.

 _"Well, I had to do something. It was all I could think of. I had to tell the Ferengis to move a safe distance from the Ktak ship before beaming me aboard their ship. They were skeptical, because they were hoping to sell my ship for scrap, but they finally did move back. When my … the Ktak ship blew up, they freaked again. Oh, and all this time, I was in touch with Keeper. She was glad I escaped. I did love her, Leonard. She said it was my nature, but I never knew whether she meant it was my nature to love her or it was my nature to tell her I loved her. We stayed together until she died two years later_."

The vision continues, as the Ferengis deliver Anon to Bolarus IX. Numerous medical tests, and academic, social, and psychological assessments are performed, and performed again.

Anon grows thoughtful as she projects her memories. _"I told them the truth about me. My name, my age, my life experience, everything but the neural communication. They didn't believe me. Years later, when I saw video of myself, I realized that I didn't look sixteen, which I was. I looked seven, and that's how they treated me. A small child with an active imagination. So they made up their own story about me with their own active imaginations. Nobody ever came up with a compelling story about how a seven-year-old came to be alone in a star ship, but otherwise it was a very reasonable, orderly story."_

 _"I finally read the detailed records from that time, and you're right,"_ McCoy responds _. "Reasonable, orderly, and complete BS. All those tests, dutifully recorded, but it was data without information, without analysis. No wonder you're phobic. At some point we can go over your records and correct them as best we can. It's important_." Anon reflexively answers " _No, I don't want to_ ," but reaches for his hand and holds it for the remainder of the session.

She transmits visions of her life on Bolarus IX, including learning the language, discovering music, learning keyboard, discovering geology, applying to Starfleet Academy. She is pleased to share Teacher Rixx with McCoy, not so much her other relationships. She had forgotten how solitary her life was until her second year at the Academy. Until Janay.

Anon is done, drenched in sweat and clearly exhausted, but she has one more thing to communicate, concluding vocally not visually.

"Leonard."

"Yes, dear heart."

Anon smiles shyly at the term of endearment. "I'm glad I told you. You and Janay. I've tried to keep it a secret for nineteen years. I've been so lonely and terrified someone would find out. It turned out to be a good thing to talk about it. You probably can't believe this, but it feels wonderful to have you in my head. It's incredible."

"Really. Hmm. No, I can't believe that but I'll take your word for it. I know you're whipped, Soli. Can you do one more thing? It's minor."

"For you? Of course."

"Let me see that calf injury. It's your last secret. At least that I know of." Anon starts to protest, then stops when he grins at her. "Gotcha. It left you with a permanent limp. Tell me what happened. Or show me. No, don't show me, tell me, please."

"Nobody else noticed the limp, not even my PT coach. What did you see that gave it away? Here, it's ugly." She rolls her pants leg up, and undoes the covering. "Try not to vomit."

McCoy looks closely at the scar. "Can I examine it?"

Anon automatically pulls her leg away, then forces herself to relax and extend it again. "I'm not sure. I'm sorry. I don't feel in control."

"Then I'll just look." He looks. Anon twists her leg so he can get a better view. "That's nasty all right. So what happened?"

"My rock drill." McCoy draws a sharp breath involuntarily. "Fifth year, Academy. I lost my grip; it danced around. Ended up embedded in my calf."

"You didn't get any help. No doctor."

"No doctor. I took some demerits for missing part of PT for a couple of days. Kept it clean; it sort of healed okay. Looks worse than it is." Her chin is jutting out defiantly, but she can't meet his eyes.

"It must have hurt like hell."

"Yah, it did." Anon pulls the leg in and covers the scar with her hand, frowns, and forces herself once more to extend it. Old habits die hard.

"Did your eyes cloud over like they did this afternoon?" McCoy asks, seeing her reaction.

"It's my third eyelids, not cloudiness. Automatic self-protection. Another thing I can't

control. And yah, they did close when I hurt my leg. Made it hard to see what I had to do. It was wicked bad."

"I could fix it, rebuild the muscle, reduce the scar."

"Hmm. Maybe." Anon draws her leg in and re-covers it; she rolls down her trouser leg. "I can't think about it right this minute."

"C'mere, darlin'." McCoy wraps his arms around Anon. She leans into it, eyes closed. "How are you still here?" he murmurs. "I think I would have killed myself."

"Oh no, Leonard. It was my life. It was all I knew. I truly loved Keeper, even though I'm pretty sure she didn't love me. I didn't know how weird it all was until I got to Bolarus IX. I didn't know it had been horrible until I got to Starfleet. By then it was all in the past. If I'd killed myself, I wouldn't know how good my life could be." She falls silent. It's been over twenty-five years since she was curled up in the arms of an affectionate creature. She has never forgotten how safe she felt. And let's face it, McCoy beats any of the affectionate creatures she knew on Ktak, hands down. "You know what's ironic, though."

"What's that?"

"I was this little toddler who had to be touched constantly. Then suddenly I was a little girl, and now a woman, who can't be touched at all."

"That's not irony, dear heart." McCoy holds her just a little tighter.

"I have a wonderful life, Leonard, I really do. I love my work, my hobbies, I love my sister, my friends, geezum, I love you so much …"

McCoy lifts her hand to his lips, kisses it, wraps her up again. He's glad she cannot see his face at the moment; he doesn't foresee a good outcome for all this, but he wouldn't tell her that, not for anything. Not yet.

He doesn't have to tell her – she's actually not an idiot. "I know this can't work, Leonard. I felt what you felt this afternoon. My unfulfilled lust for you just leads to an aching that won't stop, but I'll get over it because I don't know any better. You do know what you're missing, and your pain is sharp, like a knife wound. I don't expect you to live with that. I just hope you're not still angry with me. I started to say 'No' in the first place and should have stuck with it. I'm so sorry."

McCoy is momentarily at a loss for words. Nothing in this relationship has gone the way he has expected. How does someone so elusive speak with such directness? He recovers enough to reply with equal honesty. "I'm afraid you're right. What did you call it? Unfulfilled lust? You do have a way with words, Soli. I don't think I can live with it either. Not for long. But can we just not worry two bits about it tonight? You've done me a lot of good – you'll never know; I love you milady, and I want to think on that instead."

He thinks on when she broke into a croak that wasn't quite singing. He cherishes that memory, but he can't smile now. "You said there's a song for everything. Is there a song for this?"

Anon thinks. "Hmm. Yah, close enough." She sings. "The silence at last was broken. We flung wide our prison door. Every joyous word of love was spoken. And after all has been said, here we are, my love. Silent once more, and not far, my love, from where we were before." She speaks. "So now you know. And it doesn't change, doesn't help anything."

"Yes, it does. Now I know. Where did that song come from?"

"A musical. Mid-twentieth century, about an even more ancient myth. At least, those people got to make love. Afterwards, they had to flee for their very lives, but at least …" Her voice is quavering.

"Shh." He kisses her fingertips, runs them across her lips. Wraps her in his arms again.

A few more lovely moments pass, and then, "I am going to turn into a pumpkin very soon."

"I want to stay for that." McCoy shifts position, and as he does, Anon slides down towards horizontal. "It's about the only unique-to-you note in your medical record that seems to be accurate. I want to see it."

"Trust me, it's boring. My brain shuts down." She turns so she can put her arms around him. "I go unconscious. That's it."

"That's enough."

"Okay. Suit your…" She's gone. Her arms flop down, no longer embracing him.

McCoy sits with his arms around Anon for a while. He then picks her up and arranges her in a semblance of a comfortable position on her berth. He tries to avoid skin-to-skin contact, but accidentally brushes her neck with his fingers. He yanks his hand back as from a hot stove, then realizes she did not respond – no neural activity was triggered. He gently strokes the shape of her ear. Still no response. He shakes her, first gently, then more vigorously; he says goodnight. He watches her a minute longer in contemplation. He kisses her forehead and goes back to his quarters.


	16. Chapter 16

**Section 5: It's Complicated**

 **Chapter 5c: Bridge Over Troubled Water**

The infamous eight scans of Anon's brain are displayed on McCoy's console, each slightly different from the others in orientation. He is studying them and suddenly points to a spot on one, low on the brain stem.

"Computer. Extreme magnification here. Rotate 90 degrees horizontally."

"On screen." The other images disappear as the particular image he identified enlarges to fill the whole screen. The view zooms in on the area to which he had pointed. Rotation reveals a slender thread, a lighter color than the surrounding tissue.

"Computer. What is that thread?"

"Brain stem tissue. Fully integrated with surrounding tissue."

"Fully integrated? Elaborate."

"That tissue is of a different structure from the surrounding tissue, but both are brain stem tissue and connect neurally with each other."

"They are different colors. Speculation."

"Possible natural cause: scar from a disease. There is no known disease that would cause that scarring. Probability 0.001. Other possibilities: Genetically modified tissue. Tissue from another species. Genetically modified tissue from another species. Probabilities cannot be calculated. No data on any such tissue transplant having been performed.

McCoy frowns. He doesn't like the sound of this. "Computer. Can the non-normative tissue be excised? If so, recommendations for approach."

"Negative. Non-normative tissue cannot be excised until autopsy. Most of the brain is involved."

"Most of the brain?" McCoy takes a moment to assimilate this appalling information. "Computer, apply false color to all of these integrated tissues."

"On screen."

The image changes such that the brain looks like a scoop of fruit swirl ice cream. The threads are clearly everywhere, following all convolutions. Many different colors reflect different types of neural tissues.

"Good god." McCoy turns white, and he feels bile rising in his throat. "Damn you, Keeper." He slumps into his chair. "I don't know how to fix this, Soli."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Anon awakens abruptly, as always. Looking around, she sees she is alone and still in the previous day's uniform. She immediately strips, so she won't forget to change after her planned activity – she knows what she desperately needs to do. She swings her legs over the edge of the berth, and sits in deep contemplation, then moves to her console, plugs in her ear buds, and calls up her music.

The computer responds. "Resume Deltan repertoire."

"Computer, pause. Start a new album."

"Ready. Name of collection?"

"Name. Call it 'Calm yourself, Soli.' First file, Faure, Gabriel, Pavane Opus 50, Version Tokyo Orchestra with Quavotian Duet. Second file, Bach, JS, Sheep May Safely Graze, second version. Third file, Eissac, Opus 77, Suite 10 for Pantole. Fourth file, Sutherland, Pete, Sunday River, Fifth file, Siyahamba …"

She continues her song list. She desperately needs to have "Old Reliables" to call forth at a moment's notice. It was the worst of times. It was the best of times. She needs her own kind of comfort.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Hours later, McCoy is still working on The Anon Situation, and now it is going on the start of a new day. He has made his list, but staring at it glassy-eyed doesn't make it any less fuzzy. He shakes his head in an attempt at clearing his vision, and focuses on his agenda.

"Computer. Send a message to the Sickbay team."

"Ready."

"All medical personnel report to Sickbay Conference Area, at 0700 hours. End message. Send a voice message to Anon, Solitaire."

"Ready."

"Soli, I need to talk to my med team about you. Can you be in my head when I do? It'll be at 0700 hours. I don't care about the headache. I just don't want to leave anything out. End message."

He pulls off his shirt, washes his face and torso, and briskly towels himself down. He still feels like crap.

"I'm too old to pull overnights anymore." He pulls on a fresh shirt, examines his face, rubs the stubble. The message console rings.

"Incoming call from Anon, Solitaire."

"Put it through."

"Leonard? I'm awake. Do you want me to talk to you or just listen? You won't get a headache if I just listen. I don't know what I could say to your team that wouldn't be just annoying."

McCoy chuckles, "You're never annoying."

"You should ask Dr. Rollins. And Nurse Chapel. I'm pretty annoying. Anyway, do you want me to just listen?"

"You can do that? I didn't realize. Yes, please just listen. Only talk to me if you think I've left something out. I appreciate not getting another headache."

"What is this all about, Leonard?"

"It's a medical team issue, dear heart. I just don't want to get it wrong, so please stand by. Will that be a problem in lab or PT for you?"

"Are you kidding? Just listening is easy. I can work at the same time. I will love being with you." McCoy can hear the joy in her voice, and he smiles unconsciously in response.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

The Sickbay Conference Area is full of an entire staff of tired people. The personnel coming off night shift are yawning; the others all have coffee or tea. McCoy is the last to arrive.

"Sorry to keep you, and I'll try to keep it quick. It concerns Ensign Anon. We already knew the standard co-ag didn't work for her. Rollins found the standard tissue-growing medium was ineffective – by the way, excellent work to find the right one, Rollins."

Rollins and Chapel exchange looks; he raises his eyebrows, she half-smiles. Apparently the Old Curmudgeon has departed again. Nice. "We also learned the standard oxygen levels are too low. Her quarters are now set higher, duly noted in ship's records, but final assessment will have to wait for complete recovery from the emphysema. Yesterday I became aware of … additional concerns regarding future possible treatments." He pauses, then plunges on. "First and most important, do not ever touch her skin for any reason without wearing gloves. If she is ill or injured, you will be affected negatively … aw hell, you will feel what she feels. Pain, anxiety, fever, whatever."

"That's what that was," Rollins exclaims. "But I didn't even touch her!"

"What?" McCoy pivots to Rollins.

"I held her hand," Chapel adds, "but I didn't touch her skin that I recall. She was squeezing awfully hard."

"You felt something?" McCoy demands, "What? The biopsy?"

"Oh yes," Chapel affirms.

"But so did I," Rollins adds, "and I never had any contact during the procedure. The nano did its thing."

McCoy gets his meeting back on track. "You experienced a unique function of her brain. Whatever its activity, it transmits throughout the people nearby. I'm just glad biopsies are quick. This thing could compromise her care, so gloves, always, everybody.

"Second, Anon's sleeping patterns. It is in her records that she sleeps only a couple of hours per day, and that it always has to be at about the same time each day. What is not in her records is that she does not experience a normal sleep. Nothing wakes her. She is more unconscious than asleep. Be aware of this.

"Third …"

"Wait a minute," Chenoweth interrupts. "What are you saying? If we should get emergency evacuation orders while she is asleep, she wouldn't hear the sirens, see the lights …"

"Exactly. Think about approaches and solutions. Third," McCoy continues. "I've gone through her entire medical history in detail. There is almost nothing of value. As a team we need to study her hematology, not only for co-ag, but whatever might be there. We need to experiment with additional growth media for different tissue types. We need to dig deep into her endocrinology. I recognize this will be tedious and labor-intensive, and with no stem cells to work with, without others of her species to crosscheck, we may not succeed. We don't even have lower-level fauna from her home planet for analysis. But it is too dangerous to have no data on her, which is the current situation."

"How was she ever admitted to Starfleet?" Rollins can't contain his shock. "It's dangerous by definition."

"You'll have to ask someone else. But she is here, and we have to make our best effort to learn how to treat her. We don't throw up our hands just because someone else failed to do so, nor should that be a reason for her to receive a medical discharge against her wishes. Each of you has a strong research background; that was a major asset when I requested your assignment to my med team. I'm confident you'll rise to the challenge. Again, all medical records have been updated to reflect the new information. I'll give out research assignments later today, but right now I need a shower and a shave. Dismissed. No wait."

McCoy's eyes take on the thousand-yard stare. He thinks at Anon, " _Did I miss anything? Did I get anything wrong?_ " " _No, my love. Thank you._ "

"Dismissed." His smile looks out of place at the end of the meeting, but he doesn't care. He is cherishing the term of endearment she sent his way.


	17. Chapter 17

**Section 6: The Scream**

 **Chapter 6a: People Get Ready**

The biblical forty days pass. Anon has undergone several operations to treat the emphysema. (Rollins performed the surgeries rather than McCoy, due to ridiculous ethics, which, like so many mortals' concerns, are just so petty and pointless.) She has resumed the full PT cardio-pulmonary regimen. The adjusted oxygen level in her quarters allows her to recover more quickly from PT, and improves her overall energy level.

Andersen, connected to Anon, creates an exquisite Joy Upon Their Heads Shall Be, her best work by far. She develops confidence that Anon never knows anything that Andersen doesn't explicitly tell her, which eases the spying concern considerably, but then leads strangely in another direction.

Since Vulcans, via the mind meld, can pull thoughts out of others involuntarily, Andersen suspects that Anon has the same ability, and pushes her to experiment with that. Needless to say, Anon refuses to do so. Andersen also encourages Anon to tell her band-mates about neural communication. Needless to say, Anon refuses to do so.

"Geezum, Janay, it's hard enough to get used to sharing this with you and Leonard. They're getting to be really good friends but I'm not ready! And anyway, I promised Keeper. I promised. I can't just talk about this to people. Back off, will you?" Andersen does so, and also shows the wisdom not to urge Anon to add any of this to her pathetic species listing. Needless to say, Anon would refuse to do so.

Andersen was right (of course!) about getting used to communicating neurally. The neurological side effects almost disappear.

McCoy and Anon spend more and more time in each other's head, though sadly not in each other's bed. The sexual tension is not lessened, but is no worse either; conflicting schedules that interfere with physical closeness help to keep the frustration at bay.

He consults with the counselor Tepem, who confirms his suspicions that Anon, like the devious teenager she was, convinced the Bolian counselors that her issues were medical and being treated appropriately, as she had convinced the doctors that they were psychological and being treated appropriately. All were dutifully concerned about her welfare, but wholly mistaken about her condition. As for Spock, he had found that although her Bolian schoolwork was strong, her social status was easily as isolated as it had appeared to the Academy her first year, no friends, no clubs, no extra-curricular activities. In most ways, her life began when she met Andersen.

McCoy keeps these insights from Anon, but the bond between them grows, as does Anon's interest in things medical and familial that matter to McCoy, and McCoy's interest in things artistic and geologic that matter to Anon. He loves to talk about his family and his life, but shares nothing about his ex-wife, nor does she ever ask. Anon does not share anything at all personal unless he asks directly, and then she answers directly but briefly, generally ending with a shrug. At least she no longer avoids his questions. He actually develops an appreciation for her dearest friend. She actually develops a willingness to undergo lab tests. No. That is not true. His learning to love Andersen proves easy; her overcoming her phobias proves impossible.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Here we are, Sunset and Camden. Goodness, even your narrator is quoting 2Ds! The senior officers are assembled in the Ready Room. Kirk opens the meeting.

"So, Mr. Spock. Reynos 3?"

"Yes, the field evaluation." Spock looks up from his notes. "Life and Physical Sciences. Reynos 3 reads as uninhabited. However, there are large mineral formations that cannot be penetrated by our probes, so it is possible that intelligent life is underground, undetectable. We have been awaiting availability of Ensign Anon for the Geo team. Is she cleared for Away Team assignment, Doctor?"

"Yes, she is," McCoy answers. "All her fitness levels have been reached or exceeded. She's good to go."

"Excellent," Spock replies. "Tomorrow I shall notify the field sciences of their Away Team assignment in two days' time."

Kirk moves the agenda forward. "Mr. Scott. The concerns on Lopre 2?"

"Aye, Captain. The Lopretians are evacuating everyone where seismic events are most likely, but they will need our assistance with construction of temporary shelters and rebuilding permanent structures. They are expecting injuries even with the evacuation."

"Bones? Where do we stand?"

"My team is preparing kits for our own use and for Lopretian medics as well. We've all reviewed Lopretian anatomy and physiology in case of serious injuries."

"The timing is unfortunate," Kirk comments. "I'm not crazy about the possibility of two unrelated missions in two places at once."

"Indeed, Captain," Spock agrees. "However, I should like to point out that not only do the missions have no overlap in terms of the foci required, it is probable we will be completed with the Reynos 3 field data gathering before any seismic events on Lopre 2 have occurred."

McCoy interjects, "That's as may be, Spock, but if the Enterprise has to go to Lopre 2 before the field work is done, the med-shuttle and one of my doctors must be assigned to Reynos 3. We almost never get through field work without some injury or another."

"I agree, Doctor, that is prudent." Spock jots down a note to himself.

Security Chief Victorino offers helpfully, "Will you want any of my gorillas, Mr. Spock? You often do."

Spock responds, "Additional personnel for the different science teams could well be useful, Mr. Victorino. I shall provide a head count. Thank you."

"Uhura," added Kirk. "Would you prepare separate communications channels for the two missions' Away Teams, in case they are needed?"

"Yes, Captain." Uhura makes her own notes.

Kirk stands. "Dismissed."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

In the Physical Training gym, Anon is in the Balance Sphere area, weight pack on her back, jumping from cairn to cairn, not always able to maintain her footing without a handhold, but not falling to the ground.

Andersen enters at a trot. She observes Anon for a bit. "Graceful as a gazelle." Startled, Anon slides off and lands on her rump. "Or maybe a turtle."

Anon grimaces. "I hate these packs. The weight is carried so high, it throws off my center of gravity all the time."

"Don't get me started." Andersen is always ready for a rant about this issue. "I've been complaining about the packs for two years. Just keep practicing with them, they said. Gee, commander, I never thought of that! Sure, okay."

Anon has heard it all before. She agrees, but wants to move on. "So what's up? I thought you were done with PT for the day."

"I am. But I got a message from Mr. Spock and couldn't wait to tell you."

"Yah?" Anon wipes her forehead and adjusts her backpack.

"Your first Away Team assignment!" Andersen crows. "In two days!"

"Finally."

"Not 'finally.'" Andersen mutters in a grim tone. "Finally!" Sung triumphantly, arms upraised.

Anon laughs. "You're right. Finally! Yay!" She dances in a circle, knees up and pumping. "Tell me about it."

"All I know is it's Reynos 3, and Mr. Spock will brief all the field teams tomorrow 0800 hours."

"I don't think I can wait till 0800," Anon moans.

"Sure you can. Plus, you're not done with PT. Get back to work, Rock Head."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

In the Science Briefing Room, the next morning at 0800 hours, Spock has gathered the Geo/Hydro Team, Bio Team (both Botany and Zoology), Atmos Team. All personnel are relaxed except Anon, who cannot stop fidgeting – finger-drumming, toe-tapping, hair-pulling fidgeting. Andersen finally grabs Anon's hands and forces her to sit still. They both have huge grins splayed across their faces. Spock finally (Finally!) opens the briefing.

"Good morning. This briefing concerns the Away Team assignment tomorrow. We will be sampling and assessing the physical and biological characteristics of Reynos 3. Starfleet's top interest is geological."

"Of course!" Andersen stands, bows, and acknowledges imaginary cheers. Mock jeers and cries of "Sit down, Janay!" ensue.

"Thank you as always for your contribution, Lieutenant," Spock comments dryly. "There are a number of locations on Reynos 3 where our scanners cannot penetrate, hence the geological interest. Our landing and meet-up site will therefore be close to the primary geological locus. The other teams will fan out from there. We will have the assistance of Security personnel, one per team, in case any non-specialist work is required. I should not have to ask you to be respectful." Eye rolls cross several faces, reflecting the imaginary and overblown conflict between the blue shirts and the yellow shirts. "Based on previous probes and scans, Reynos 3 is presumed devoid of intelligent life. Should any of you discover evidence to the contrary, notify me immediately. Our mission will then incorporate the Prime Directive principles, and our approach will of necessity change appropriately. Questions?"

Murmurs of "no, sir," "understood, sir" float through the room.

"There is one potential complication," Spock continues. "The Enterprise is on standby for a mission to Lopre 2, where seismic activity is expected imminently. If such an event should happen while we are on Reynos 3, a doctor and the med-shuttle will be dispatched to our Away Team, and the Enterprise will leave the space of Reynos 3 for Lopre 2. The concerns on Lopre 2 are primarily engineering, security, and medical. Our scientific field mission will therefore continue as planned. Questions?"

Repeated murmurs of "no, sir," "understood, sir."

"Good." Spock is satisfied with his teams. "Prepare for your field work. Dismissed."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Anon has returned to her quarters following the Science Section briefing and her lab shift. Leaning back against the wall with her eyes closed, she reaches out for McCoy.

" _Leonard, are you there?"_

" _Always."_ She can see and hear his smile, or maybe just imagines it.

" _I'm finally going on a field science away team!"_

" _I know. I cleared you this morning for full duty."_

" _You didn't tell me!"_

" _Of course not. You're supposed to hear it from your immediate superior, not your mole in the senior officers."_

" _You're right."_ Anon is not even slightly abashed. _"I'm just so excited. Mr. Spock said the Enterprise might have to go someplace else while we're on our mission. Would you be the doctor who's left with our Away Team, or would you go with the Enterprise?"_

" _The Enterprise. If it happens like that, Chenoweth will be the Field Doctor. Her first Away Team too."_

" _Oh good. So I won't be the only rookie."_

" _Will we able to stay in contact?"_ McCoy asks. _"I still get the buzz, but I haven't had a headache in a long time."_

" _We can be in contact. It's easy. But just aural, not optic. I need to concentrate."_

" _You'll have a marvelous adventure, darlin'. Just be careful."_

" _I know, I know. Field work is dangerous, blah-yah-blah. I'm so excited! Gotta go – Movie and Music Night. I wish you could come."_

" _Putting together med kits for Lopre 2. Boring but necessary. Have fun."_

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

The ever-expanding Movie and Music Night group has gathered in the Lounge. Andersen rises for her emcee duties and bellows, "Listen up, people! We have an announcement and some changes for tonight. I am pleased and proud to announce that my partner in mischief, Movie Night's very own Ensign Soli Anon, is going on her first Away Team assignment tomorrow! Let's hear it!"

Various cheers and whoops are heard. Anon leaps up and raises her fists in victory, turning in all directions to acknowledge the crowd. This level of engagement is a first for her, and the cheers increase in volume appropriately.

"So in honor of the Ensign," Andersen continues, "we are switching movies. You were expecting the 2040 movie musical _Billary – A Love Story_ , but I'm taking it upon myself to screen Ensign Anon's sappy and sentimental fave instead. I know Cacophony will be disappointed, [Various blats and blurts are heard from the band.] but we will return to the Clintons next time I promise."

More blats and blurts, some extremely rude. Cacophony is not easily assuaged.

"Another change: All the throwing of villain's popcorn and lovers' rice will be directed at the Ensign herself. We won't hurt her keyboard – make sure it's put away, Soli!" Anon quickly rolls it up. "But we can destroy her dignity!"

The people sitting near Anon move conspicuously away from her. "Cowards!" Andersen hoots. "The last change will require Cacophony's drum set and some audience participation. In this movie, any time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings. So we need lots of random cowbell, followed by flapping of wings and raucous, very loud and raucous, cawing. Like this! Hit it Maestro!" Groome trills the cowbell key. Andersen pulls in her fists to her chest, flaps her elbows, and crows, including some Funky Chicken footwork.

"Let's practice, boys and girls." The cowbell sounds again. Fifty percent participation rate. "Oh no, you don't. No getting shy tonight. If I can do it, you can do it!" Groome sounds the cowbell again. This time there is close to a ninety percent participation rate. Andersen is not satisfied.

"Don't make me single you out, Lewis – you know I will! Everybody now! Everybody!" One last cow bell, loud and universal caws. "Without any further ado, Movie Night's tribute to Ensign Anon's first Away Team: 'It's a Wonderful Life!'"

The opening credits roll.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Another interruption from your narrator, this one to tell you I will be bowing out for the rest of this section. As you well know by now, I love these people, but that doesn't mean I don't like all that happens to them. That's life, when you are a mortal, which is one of the reasons I'm glad not to be a mortal. So I want nothing to do with the next three chapters – you're on your own. I shall return when the story is more to my liking.


	18. Chapter 18

**Section 6: The Scream**

 **Chapter 6b: Make Me an Angel**

Insinuating itself upon the greenery of Reynos 3 is the golden glow of the Enterprise's transporter. Spock arrives with five security yellow shirts. They spread out from the transporter coordinates, eyes alert. This is where the rubber meets the road. The yellow shirts need only once to protect or rescue a blue shirt, and the scientists' respect for their differing skill sets is permanently locked in. The transporter glows again, and this time the Geo/Hydro teams arrive. They too move away from transporter coordinates. The transporter glows for the last time, and the Bio/Atmos teams arrive. Spock's tricorder is already out – he gestures to the hillside geological formation that is of primary interest.

"That is the largest area of the impenetrable material. Geo team is assigned there. All others fan out per my order." Both Andersen and Anon are loaded up with their shoulder packs, and they approach the hill. The other teams turn away, but almost immediately, Michelle Mitchell, a field botanist, turns back to the hill, eyes jumping between checking her tricorder and studying the foliage. She focuses on the clump of trees that is the only one of their genotype in the area.

"Hold. That doesn't look natural." She walks straight to a section that is the thickest cluster in the vicinity. Carefully, she pulls back heavily leafed branches. Andersen joins her, tricorder scanning back and forth, then zeroing in.

"There's an opening, yes," Andersen confirms. "Maybe a cave?"

Mitchell pulls out loppers, carefully cuts her way in. "There we are."

Andersen approaches, and peers through the opening. "Dammit. Not a cave. It's a stupid mine. Dammit twice over."

Anon calls out. "Mr. Spock!" Spock had been walking away, speaking to and directing the Security team. He jogs over to Mitchell and the Geo team.

Andersen steps up. "Evidence of intelligent life, Mr. Spock. Unmistakably a mine. We're not the only ones interested in this stuff."

"Indeed." Spock opens his communicator. "Spock to Enterprise."

"Go ahead, Mr. Spock."

"Evidence of either native or visitor intelligent life, Captain. Prime Directive in effect."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

All the field teams have gathered in front of the mine entrance. In addition to the blue shirts, there is one yellow shirt per team.

Spock is speaking "…We still have no direct evidence of intelligent life, but a mine is powerful indirect evidence. Due to the lack of observed activity, we shall assume for the time being that nocturnal activity is more likely. Be extremely alert to the possibility of finding more evidence. At dusk, we shall return to the Enterprise, and continue scanning the surface." He hears murmurs of "Yes, sir" and "Understood" and continues. "As before, we will go our separate ways. I shall join the Bio teams for the time being, but if any team should find anything at all of interest, please contact me immediately. Questions?" He hears more murmurs of "No, sir" and "Understood" and is satisfied. The Bio, Atmos, and Hydro teams move out.

Spock has additional instructions for the Geo team. "Lieutenant, one of you must be able to remain in contact with the Enterprise and the rest of the Away Team at all times."

"Understood, sir. We'll work it out."

Andersen, Anon, and their assigned yellow shirt Martinez trudge back toward the mine entrance. Both geologists are glum.

Anon speaks first, and for both of them. "I really wanted to climb and sample. That's what I practiced the most. But we have a stupid mine instead."

"I know. At least I have seniority, ha-ha. You get to put on your waders and waddle in."

"Great." They reach the entrance. Anon removes her hard hat and pack, and pulls out her waders and cleats from the pack. She replaces her climbing shoes with the cleats, pulls on the waders, reorganizes the pack and loads it on her back, then resets her hat, and breathes deeply. "Here we go."

She carefully steps into the mine, ducks and twists, and tips her head to shine the lamp everywhere. "Geezum, this looks unstable. Now I wish Mitchell hadn't cut the branches back. Don't see any other supports – just roots and tendrils. They're doing more harm than good. So much crumbling." There is a splash. "Yah, and water. It's sloping down already – I'm estimating a ten-degree slope, not bad. I'm staying in the middle for now, Andersen. I know we're supposed to stay by the walls, but I just don't like the look of them. Farther in, I may change my mind."

As soon as Anon had started down the slope, Andersen heard the communicator crackling. After fiddling with it doesn't improve the signal, she asks, "How are you using your communicator? I'm not picking it up clearly. Lots of interference. How far in are you?"

"Hmm, yah, I wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary. I'm not even ten meters in. Wait." Anon also fiddles with settings. "Testing. Is that better?"

"No, not at all. Hold. Ten meters, got it," Andersen repeats Anon's words for the benefit of her field notes log. Not being able to communicate with the ship is one thing. Not being able to communicate with each other, unacceptable. "Let me tell Mr. Spock. See what he wants us to do." She switches to broader-range communicator. "Andersen to Spock."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

On the bridge of the Enterprise, Lieutenant Uhura responds to a signal from her console.

"Distress call from Lopre 2, Captain."

"On screen."

A dark-skinned furry fellow appears. "Captain Kirk. President Daneel here. The quakes have started. We're transmitting the severity to you. Mostly what we expected, but sooner than we figured, and there is an area where we were surprised by activity. We'll need your excavation and medical assistance, I'm afraid."

"We're prepared to help you, President Daneel. We'll be there in four hours," Kirk replies.

"Thank you, Captain. Out." The screen goes blank.

"Uhura, get me Sickbay," Kirk requests.

Uhura's fingers fly over the console. "Connected, sir. On speaker."

"Bones, we got just what we didn't want."

"Not a problem, Jim, we're ready. I'll send Chenoweth to Shuttle Bay for Reynos 2 coverage."

"Thanks, Bones. Uhura, get Spock."

More flying fingers, followed by "Bridge to Away Team." After a pause, Uhura says. "We're connected, Captain. On speaker."

"Spock here."

"Spock, we're going to Lopre 2 momentarily. Your med-shuttle should arrive shortly. Take care of your team. Uhura will give you the channel for your communications."

"Understood, Captain. Spock out."

Kirk is almost finished. "Last one, Uhura. Please, get Engineering."

"Scott here."

"Scotty, we're on our way to Lopre 2. Worse than they thought. We'll need all the equipment you can muster."

"Aye, Captain."

Kirk leans back in the command chair to wait for the necessary chain of events to take place.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

On Reynos 3, Anon cautiously penetrates deeper into the mine.

"I'm going in farther, Andersen. Still sloping down a bit. It honestly does look like the most unstable section is where the roots and tendrils are attached. After that it looks … well damn."

"Talk a lot louder, Anon." Andersen calls. "The communicator is useless now, but I can hear your voice if you yell. Wait a second, here's Mr. Spock."

Spock's voice comes over the speaker. "Spock to Geo Team."

Andersen touches her communicator button. "Andersen here."

"The Enterprise is leaving for Lopre 2. Dr. McCoy has dispatched the med-shuttle to Reynos 3 with Dr. Chenoweth aboard."

"Understood, Mr. Spock. Nothing we tried worked with the communicators."

"Communicate orally as long as possible, Andersen," Spock replies. "Get mineral samples, artifacts if you can find any, and exit the mine. Spock out."

Andersen yells down the mine tunnel. "Anon, we're on our own. Enterprise is on the emergency mission. Plus, Spock basically says yell until we can't hear each other, then come back."

Andersen suddenly hears Anon's voice in her head. " _I'm not yelling, Janay. I'll speak into my log to record my field notes, and also be in your head. Much easier, okay? I'm already in Leonard's head_."

" _Yah, please do that. Hi, Dr. McCoy_."

" _He can't hear you,"_ Anon informed Andersen. _"Too complicated. I'm actually trying to do work here, you know_."

" _Well, then tell the Boyfriend I said hi_." Andersen then speaks aloud to ensure her field notes are accurate. "Now please report, Anon. How far in are you, and what do you see?"

"I'm now about 35 meters in. The walls and ceiling look much more stable. So I'm staying close to the wall, per protocol. Staying to the right."

"35 meters in, following starboard wall," Andersen repeats.

"Yah. In fact … _I must be losing my mind_." Anon has stopped making her log entries.

" _Please don't do that, little sister. We need your mind right here_." Andersen keeps it light, resumes talking aloud. "Talk to me. What do you see?"

" _Janay, this looks like home. I mean the caves I grew up in. I'm not crazy_."

Andersen frowns, and stops speaking aloud. " _You don't really think we're on Ktak_."

" _No, no, of course not. Keeper showed me Ktak from orbit. It's dead on the surface. This planet is lush. I'm talking about the mine. This mine looks like the caves of Ktak. Same height, same texture to the walls. I never considered that they might be dug like mines instead of being natural caves. Huh. And they are completely light absorbent. Wait a moment. Let me check something_." Anon spreads her arms and runs her hands over the starboard wall, slowly sidling along the wall as she does so. " _I'm going to try to see whether I can spot the kind of light fixtures that were on the walls. They were mounted every meter or so_."

" _Soli, calm yourself_ ," Andersen urges her. " _It can't be the same. It's too much of a coincidence_."

" _What, that both the Federation and the Ktak would be interested in a mineral that was resistant to probes? That's not a coincidence; it's completely predictable. The Ktak started to hide even before the Federation was formed, basically as soon as they moved underground. If it's the same stuff, it's perfect for concealment. I'm getting a sample now, see if it feels the same, tastes the same_."

" _Tastes the same? So you didn't just start that at the Academy? Soli, I need to put this stuff into my log. Talk out loud please_."

"Okay, right. So I was a kid, Block Head. I mean Andersen. Kids eat everything, taste everything, sniff everything. I still do. You can learn a lot that way." Anon pops one of her samples in her mouth, delicately presses it between her teeth. "And the stuff was malleable, I should say, this stuff is malleable. Very weird. You should try sculpting with it."

"Malleable, eh? That does sound fun to work with." Andersen is genuinely intrigued. "But go back to the light fixtures idea. Any clues there? Mr. Spock said to look for artifacts."

"Nothing definitive. I see the occasional debris pile, but I haven't been able to see holes or attachments in the walls yet. I was much shorter so I may be looking at the wrong height. Hang on. Here's some debris that's reasonably dry. Getting a sample. There's so much water. It's just… Geezum."

"Hold, Anon. I just realized you're out of my sight. I don't know for how long. Sorry, I was listening more than watching. Is there a fork or branch? Report."

"I've stopped. I'm at 82 meters, still following the wall on my right. It didn't turn sharply. Must be gradual. Could be a fork but I didn't notice another tunnel. I'll check. Oh, I've lost the light from the entrance. Stupid head lamp is useless. I'll get the hand-helds from the pack. Oh Geezum, same old, same old."

"Okay, 82 meters. I know the pack is awkward, but I really don't want you to take off the hat in the mine. Come out first."

Anon sounds exasperated. "Janay, I can't see. I'm ankle-deep in running water. And I don't want to go back through the crumbling zone again until I've got all my samples and something like a field report because I don't want to have to go in a second time. It's bad. You can't see it on the video because of the light absorption, but trust me it's bad."

"I get it. I hate mines, too. Be careful is all. You don't want to get turned around. Keep your footing."

"Trying to. All right, hat's off. On the ground, I'm stepping on the strap so I don't lose it, okay?"

"That's good." Andersen is straining anxiously to see into the mine. She knows perfectly well that if you have to say something's good, usually that's because it's bad. Otherwise, why say anything at all?

"Taking off my pack geezum!" Silence rings in Andersen's head.

Andersen shouts, "Soli, what happened? Report!" She whips off her own hardhat, hangs it on one of the cut branches, and grabs the strap of her pack. She stops and listens as Anon finally replies.

"I slipped. I'm fine. I slid down a slope a ways. Not a shaft, Andersen, repeat, not a shaft. I estimate … maybe a 55-degree, 60-degree angle. I can climb back easy-peasy. The hat's above me but I still have my pack. I can find my hand-helds and cleats and pitons in the dark. That's why we practice, right?"

Andersen repeats for the sake of her log, "55/60-degree slope? How far did you go?"

Anon replies, but it's perhaps not the best log entry she could make. "How far? Let me think. I counted steps to get to 82 meters, but I don't remember getting any training on measuring distance while sliding on my ass at an unknown speed on a slope of unknown angle for a time of unknown duration. Did I miss that class?"

"Ha-ha, so not funny." Andersen is not relieved at all, and is moving as fast as she can. "82 meters in, okay. I'm coming to assist. We practice that, too." She removes her pack, hangs it on another, thicker, protruding root, and opens it. She pulls out her own hand-held lights, rope, pitons, cleats.

"Don't come, Janay, I can do this." Anon is pleading, and Andersen cannot determine her friend's state of mind. As she has done for the last four-and-a half years, Andersen divides her analysis between the situation at hand and Anon's mental state. Maybe she is embarrassed about the fall? Not relevant. Injured and not willing to admit it? Unknowable.

Anon speaks again. "The front of the mine is so crumbly, Janay, I really think it's ready to give. Please, listen to me. No need for both of us to be trapped behind a rock fall. Just wait for me. I'm fine."

Andersen is pulling on her cleats. "Not an option, we do this together. We should be together." She taps her communicator. "Andersen to Spock."

"Spock here."

Spock's calm voice soothes Andersen. All is normal. She hears Anon in her head. " _I've got my hand-helds. I'm fine. Janay, please don't come_."

Andersen responds to Spock. "Anon fell. Says she's uninjured. I'm going in to help get her out. Communicate with Martinez here if you need to." She closes her communication with Spock without waiting for his response and speaks to the yellow shirt. "Martinez! Stay close, but not too close. Describe to Mr. Spock what you see." She pulls her pack off the improvised hook.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

On the Enterprise, traveling at warp speed towards Lopre 2, McCoy is surrounded by activity but is stock-still, staring. He stopped paying attention to his Lopre responsibilities ever since he heard "Taking off my pack geezum!" He listens. He feels the strength of Anon's conviction, though none of Andersen's concerns, and murmurs with her, "Don't come … Listen … Wait …"

Then McCoy hears: _Janay, please don't come_. Suddenly he sees _: Roots, pulling away from crumbling black walls. A mountain collapsing upon him, upon her. Kaleidoscopic twisting to escape, but too late. A protection bubble from the hard hat deploying. Next to him, not above him. Martinez swimming into view, grasping his hand, her hand._ Now he feels: _An explosion of pain. Bones breaking. Organs rupturing_. And all the time he hears _: Janay no Janay I love you don't leave me don't leave me stay with me I love you Janay stay. I can't sis I'm sorry._ Now he sees: _blackness. He is dead_. He roars, staggers backward until he hits a wall, then his knees fold. Once again he sees: _hand-held illuminators firmly grasped in his fingers, her fingers_. He hears: _Rumbling of rocks falling and tumbling and bouncing_. He feels: _training kicking in automatically. Grabs his pack, her pack. Stretches out his hand, her hand to find the wall, press against it, and follow it. No choice, go deeper. Boulders, rocks, stones are pelting him. His head. The crack of bone. His skull. He spins and falls. More rocks hit him. In the cold water. Another boulder, landing on his hand, crushing it, pinning him, pinning her. Far above him he hears the hard hat's protection bubble deploying. Blackness_.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

On Reynos 3, Spock is watching the Bios teams. The Botany team members are in trees, collecting samples that they package, label, and drop while yellow shirts gather them. Suddenly Spock straightens, his head high. He whirls and takes off running at full speed toward the mine.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

At the mine, the side of the hill has collapsed. Martinez is still holding Andersen's hand, but naught else of her body is visible. Spock arrives on the scene, running pell-mell towards Martinez and Andersen. Martinez is sobbing, and finally remembers to notify Spock, who comes up to him as Martinez speaks into his communicator. "Martinez to Spock."

"Report, Mr. Martinez." Spock gasps.

Martinez is still sobbing. "I didn't react in time, Mr. Spock. I killed her. I tried to pull her out …"

"Report! That is not a report, Mr. Martinez. Report." Mr. Spock has lost a team member. He cannot wrap his head around that fact. He is already running through the series of events that led to this unacceptable outcome.

"Yes, sir." Martinez reluctantly releases Andersen's lifeless hand. He stands and takes a deep breath, speaks raggedly. "Her hard hat, Andersen's hard hat and pack were hanging from the tree branches. She put them there to get tools, something from her pack."

"Which tools?" Spock barks. "Collect yourself, Mr. Martinez."

"Yes, sir. She brought out some pointed shoes, cleats I think? She got out a rope, some spikes, a hammer? Something else I didn't recognize. She put on the shoes. Stuffed the spikes and I don't know what in her belly pack. She grabbed the shoulder pack from the branches, and the whole hill collapsed. I don't know how. I grabbed her. I couldn't save her. I …"

"Enough, Mr. Martinez. Await further orders." Spock turns away, opens his communicator. "Away Team, return to landing zone. We have … a change of mission." He retunes his communicator for the other channel. "Spock to Enterprise. There has been an accident."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

In Sickbay, the med team is in turmoil.

"Dr. McCoy! McCoy!" Rollins runs to McCoy, pulls out his tricorder.

"Is he stroking?" Chapel kneels on the other side of McCoy.

Rollins is reading his screen. "Not a stroke. Not a seizure. He's in shock, what the hell?" Rollins flips McCoy so the latter is on his back, knees elevated.

Chapel takes McCoy's face in her hands and speaks directly to him. "Dr. McCoy. Leonard. It's Christine. You're in Sickbay. Rollins, his skin is like ice. Leonard! There we go."

McCoy's eyes are back in focus, looking at Chapel, but he doesn't respond to her. He pushes her hands away, tries to sit up, gets partway there.

"You're in shock, Doctor," Rollins explains. "Don't try to get up yet." Chapel has fetched a blanket, attempts to wrap it around McCoy.

McCoy pushes the blanket off, wipes the sweat from his forehead, and makes another effort to sit. This time he succeeds. He is breathing heavily, rasps, "Accident."

"There's been no accident, Dr. McCoy." Rollins attempts to pull McCoy back into the world around him. "You're fine. Everyone is fine."

"No!" McCoy stands, and pushes away assistance. He speaks hoarsely. "Reynos 3."

"Reynos 3?" Rollins's confusion grows. "We're just about to go into orbit around Lopre 2. We're going to start the distribution of the med-kits. You're on the Enterprise. Dr. McCoy, please sit down, sir, let us help you."

"Oh my god." Chapel's eyes widen in horror. "Rollins. The biopsy."

"No! Impossible," Rollins retorts. "She's not touching him. We're parsecs away."

"Get back to work. Everyone. Get to work." McCoy's eyes are wild. He moves to where he had been, looks at the heap of kits helplessly, as though never having seen them before.

The intercom comes to life. It is Uhura's voice. "Dr. McCoy. Please report to the bridge."

Rollins continues to try to exert some influence over the situation. "Doctor McCoy, you are in no shape…"

"I know the way to the bridge, Rollins." McCoy staggers out of Sickbay. No one dares to accompany him.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

McCoy enters the bridge, eyes drawn to the screen, which is blank. Victorino follows shortly after. Tears are streaming down Uhura's face, unacknowledged, un-wiped.

Kirk states grimly, "We're waiting for Scotty."

"They're sending him now, Captain." Uhura whispers dully. "Directly to the bridge." The transporter glows; Scott is deposited.

Kirk is the captain, and he initiates his painful, awful duty. "Mr. Spock, please repeat your message for the benefit of the new arrivals."

"There has been a fatal accident on Reynos 3. Lieutenant Andersen has died. Whereabouts of Ensign Anon are unclear."

"State your recommendations, Spock."

"Rescue and recover. We wish to avoid further destabilizing the mine area until we can rescue Anon. At the same time, we are recovering Andersen's remains and hope to recover her log as well so we can narrow down the possible location of Ensign Anon. I am assuming Anon is alive, Captain." McCoy grunts unintelligibly.

"What do you require for your rescue operation?" Kirk asks. "Anything, Spock."

"For the moment, we have sufficient tools for the recovery. We are sensitive to the Prime Directive, but should be able to recover Andersen's remains before dusk. At that time we will go into high planetary orbit to avoid possible contact with other life. We will of course seek evidence of that life. At first light we plan to stabilize the mine where the area of greatest fall took place, locate and analyze Andersen's log, and determine the most likely position of Ensign Anon. We will then spend another night at high planetary orbit. We will begin excavation for rescue the next morning."

"The Prime Directive. Not my highest priority with the life of any of my crew at stake." Kirk snaps.

"Nevertheless." Spock remains coolly rational. "To pursue realistic rescue operations for Ensign Anon, we need equipment that is on the Enterprise – or perhaps it is on Lopre 2 currently? I estimate we will require it in thirty-nine hours."

"Aye, Mr. Spock." Scott speaks up. "It all is on the planet right now. I have to say – I canna give you good advice. I have two fine people who are excavation experts. I'll assign them to this job, and let them tell me what equipment they need. They can accompany the Enterprise back to Reynos 3 for the rescue operation. Beggin' your pardon, Captain, assuming that's the plan."

"Damn straight that's the plan," Kirk growls. "Timing, Scotty?"

"You need it in thirty-nine hours, Mr. Spock? Give me thirty to get my people and gear together. Four hours to return to Reynos 3. You'll have what you need well before thirty-nine hours."

"Make it so," Kirk confirms. "Bones, you all right?"

"No." McCoy starts to exit the bridge.

"Bones, this briefing is not over." McCoy stops, but does not turn around. "Anything else, Spock?"

"Only this, Captain, and Dr. McCoy: Since the loss of my home, I have become acutely attuned to death. It haunts me. I felt Andersen's absence at the moment she succumbed to her injuries. I did not feel Anon's death. Therefore, I am confident she lives."

As he listens to Spock's attempt at reassurance, McCoy's fists are clenched, his eyes narrowed. "Are we done now?"

Spock's voice is slow and reluctant. "I believe my concerns have been met."

Kirk affirms, "This briefing is concluded." Before Kirk completes his statement, McCoy leaves the bridge, shoulders slumped like an old man.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Kirk has exited the lift to the corridor, in pursuit of McCoy who left moments before.

Kirk walks briskly and calls, "Bones." McCoy doesn't react. "Bones!" Kirk breaks into a run, catches up to McCoy, and grabs his arm, which McCoy angrily throws off. "Bones. I know. I'm sorry. Don't give up."

"What do you know!" McCoy snarls. "You're sorry? I'm …" He stops, staring, hopeless, at Kirk.

"Bones. You're my friend. And my Chief Medical Officer. I need both of those people. I knew Janay Andersen very well – she was incredible. I didn't … I don't know … Ensign Anon. My only contact with her was the Lights of Cokindt incident. But I remember when you were so furious with me, and you called her "that sweet little ensign." Do you remember that?"

McCoy's face softens. "I do."

"You've been a different man ever since, Bones. A better man. Don't give up on her now. Don't give up on yourself. I need you."

This is a conversation McCoy simply cannot bear. "Jim, I … More than anything, I need to work right now. I can't think about this."

"Okay, Bones, but don't lose yourself. I will relieve you of your duties in a heartbeat if I think you can't take care of my crew." McCoy turns a baleful look at Kirk, who promptly softens his tone. "But there's no replacing you as my friend. Bones." Kirk embraces McCoy, who finally reciprocates, though still in a daze.


	19. Chapter 19

**Section 6: The Scream**

 **Chapter 6c:** **No One Is Alone**

On the bridge of the Enterprise, excavation engineering specialists Groome and Ioyomah are conferring with Spock, who is still on Reynos 3, to determine which equipment is best for the task at hand. Andersen's body has been recovered; her log was found and uploaded into the Enterprise's system.

"I've drafted a topo map that you see here," Spock explains, "based on physical measurements. Our instrument readings have been unreliable in the area. Andersen's log indicated that Anon estimated she had entered 82 meters into the mine, at generally a 10-degree down-slope, tending slightly to starboard. At that point, the tunnel sloped at approximately 55 to 60 degrees …"

"How can you know that?" Groome is incredulous.

Spock is unruffled. "Field scientists are trained to use their bodies for measurements for those occasions when they have few or no other instruments. Anon used that technique to estimate the distance she traveled, and for the angle of the slope. As I have already stated, our instruments were not functioning in the mine. She communicated her estimates to Andersen, who entered them in her log, should we need them, which we clearly do. May I continue?"

"Of course, sir. Beg pardon, sir." Groome is properly abashed. Maybe those blue shirts have some contributions to make to an engineering problem after all.

"When we rotate the topo," Spock continues, "we see the best guess as to where Anon might have been when the mine collapsed. Of course, she could have continued on to seek an alternate exit, but her training would have been to stay at or near the last documented location: 82 meters from the entrance. Approximately there, if she climbed back up the slope and waited. Farther by an unknown factor if she were unable to climb and stayed where she slipped."

"Thank you Mr. Spock. That is extremely valuable information." Ioyomah's strategy is already being formed. "I know which equipment we need. Groome and I will devise an action plan. There's nothing further your people should do, except rest so you're fresh. When we arrive at Reynos 3, we'll lay out the plan for you."

"Thank you, Ioyomah, Groome. I look forward to your arrival." Spock's image vanishes.

Groome is on the same page as Ioyomah, but has a strange way of expressing it. "We are going to get this right, Ioyomah. I don't know what happens to Movie Night, but I'm damned if I'm going to lose Cacophony."

"Way to prioritize, Groome," Ioyomah grumbles.

"You know exactly what I mean," Groome snaps at him. "Let's figure out how we're going to find our peerless leader. She changed everything for me. Damn, I love that girl."

Ioyomah certainly does know what Groome meant. "Amen."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

McCoy is pacing in his quarters, too agitated to lean against the counter as he usually does. He has poured a jigger of Jameson's, which beckons from the counter. He is unshaven, and looks ten years older. He sits on his berth, removes his shoes. He lies back, but is flooded with the images and sounds of death Anon had shared from Reynos 3. With a groan he rises and resumes pacing.

"You're useless without sleep, McCoy." He paces across the room, turns back and looks at the enemy bed with utter contempt. He opens a cabinet, pulls out a small bottle, and shakes out a pill, which he downs along with the whiskey. He stands a bit longer, then slams a chair opposite the bed and sits. He rubs his face hard, then leans back and stares at the ceiling. Definitely not sleeping.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

The second night after the accident, the med-shuttle, with the Away Team aboard, is again in high planetary orbit. The Enterprise is receiving deconstructed excavation equipment in preparation to leave its Lopre 2 orbit, but even after the equipment has been loaded, the ship is still four hours away.

Anon regains consciousness and, gradually, awareness.

"Oh. Ow ow ow ow ow. My head. My hand! It hurts. Oh, it hurts." She attempts a deep breath and retreats into her head. "O _h. Janay's dead. Janay. You went away. My friend, my sister, my savior, you're gone. Stop it, Anon. Where's Leonard? Not here. Not there. Not here. Calm down. Think. Where's anybody? The Away Team. They know I'm stuck here. They have to know. Don't panic. They're working on finding you. You're not alone. You're never alone in Starfleet. Don't panic. Search for them. They have to be here. They're not here. Stop panicking. Somebody has to be on this planet, somewhere. Reynos 3, remember? Yah, just look for them. Stop panicking. They will be here. Stop panicking. You're not alone. Janay is gone. I am alone. No one is here. I can't be alone. Stop panicking. Remember you're never alone in Starfleet. I am alone. Janay is gone. Leonard is gone. I can't be alone. I can't do this. I can't_."

From the depths of her soul, using the full extent of her power, Anon unlooses a scream. The unthinkable loss of her sister. The lifelong dread of isolation. The despair. The loss. The pain. The need. The blackness. The scream expressing her worst fears, experienced right here. Right now. Lost. Terrified. Alone in the dark.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Chaos is the goddess of the bridge of the Enterprise.

"Red Alert!" Kirk shouts. "What the hell is that! Shields up. Sulu, report."

"No ships within scanning radius." Sulu's hands are on the console, but they are trembling, and he can't stop whip-sawing his head in agony. "Rechecking outer limits. Limits. Employing evasive maneuvers."

"Captain, I hear it, but the board doesn't register any incoming messages." Uhura slaps at her console, misses her target, slaps again. "Not on any frequency. Rechecking. Damn, I can't breathe."

Commander Scott is on Lopre 2 and somehow manages to call in. "Scott to bridge. Do you hear that? My people are, well, they're beside themselves. Weepin' like grievin' mothers. Captain!"

"Find the source of that transmission, Uhura!" Kirk's eyes are squeezed all but shut, his jaw clenched.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

McCoy is still in the chair, but unconscious, head lolling back. Suddenly he jerks upright, eyes wide open but not focused on his surroundings. He closes his eyes deliberately.

" _Soli. I'm here. You're not alone. I'm with you. I won't leave you. I won't ever leave you. I'm here, love. It's all right."_

And just like that, the scream ceases.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Back on the bridge of the Enterprise, Uhura is still trying to make sense of the terrible transmission, to her growing frustration.

"I'm trying, Captain!" She rubs her face, hard, gasping for breath. She looks around, bows her head. "It's stopped, Captain. Still no source detected."

"Orders, Captain?" Sulu's voice is low and weak.

"Cancel Red Alert. Go to Yellow Alert." Kirk is still out of breath. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. Uhura resets the Alert level.

From the console comes a series of interjections: "Spock to Enterprise." "McCoy to Bridge."

"Not now, Bones." Kirk wants and needs the insight of his chief science officer. "Go ahead, Spock."

"We just experienced a communication from an unknown source," Spock reports, "although it has ceased."

"So did we, Spock. Any ideas?"

"Yes. Check the biometrics of the bridge personnel. I believe you'll find neural activity spiking at that time."

"Biometrics?" Not Kirk's area of expertise. "Uhura?"

"One moment. Found it, Captain. Confirm Mr. Spock's statement."

"Jim." McCoy's voice over the intercom again.

"Not now, Bones! Speculation as to source, Mr. Spock."

"I believe the source was Ensign Anon. That is the only logical explanation."

"Logic! What kind of logic is that?" Kirk throws himself back in his chair, arms upraised in frustration.

"Jim." Third time's the charm.

"Bones." Kirk can hardly wait.

"Anon is alive," McCoy's exhausted voice can't hide his exhilaration. "Injured and frightened, but alive."

Kirk is merely exhausted, not exhilarated. "I don't suppose this has anything to do with that … that scream that just hit us in the nuts."

McCoy pauses. Anon's secret is no longer secret. At all. "You heard it? Yes, that was Sol … Ensign Anon."

"We need to have a long conversation, Bones. Later. Can she communicate with you? Can you communicate with her?"

Reluctantly, McCoy admits, "Yes."

"Spock said they have an approximate, last-known position for her. Has she moved from that location?"

McCoy returns after a pause for communication. "No, she has not moved … oh, but she says it's not precise. She doesn't know the depth or length of the slope she fell down."

"Thank you, Bones. Please tell her …"

After a beat, McCoy encourages, "Yes."

"Tell her we will get her back on the Enterprise as soon as we can. Not to lose hope."

"Sure, Jim. That is not her nature anyway, but I'll tell her. Oh, and Jim. Is Spock there?"

"In the virtual sense, yes. I can pass along anything you have to say."

"There is no intelligent life on Reynos 3. Whoever built that cursed mine is long gone. Tell him to get his ass in gear and dig her out of there."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Six hours later, it's 3 AM local time on Reynos 3. Lights are set up illuminating the collapsed portion of the hill and all along the side of the hill where they expect to find Anon. The Away Team's med-shuttle is on the ground. Spock is in conversation with Ioyomah and Groome who have been transported to the surface. Ioyomah is carrying something on his back. The first of the pieces of excavation equipment is transported down. Away Team members pour out of the shuttle, rubbing the sleep from their eyes, awaiting instruction.

Ioyomah greets them, going through the formalities of quickly sketching out the rescue plan. "… So it will be probably twelve hours before all the equipment we need is transported down and assembled. If you people want to go back to the Enterprise, sleep in your own berths …"

"We're not leaving." Karlten is offended, not a common state for a Vulcan.

"… or you can stay here until we find Anon." Ioyomah quickly adapts to his audience.

"Hell, yeah," Mannier affirms.

"All right then. We'll keep you informed." Ioyomah turns to Spock. "In any case, it will be a while before we start digging. In the meantime, do you have samples of the mineral in question? Andersen mentioned malleability in her log. But you said your phasers were ineffective in stabilizing the mine entrance. I'd like to try a variety of frequencies to see if we can find one that works. If we can build a rescue tunnel with the material itself at the same time we are digging the tunnel, it would save precious time."

"As opposed to having to construct separate tunnel supports," Groome clarifies.

"I'm carrying a portable – where can I experiment?" Ioyomah shifts the gear on his back.

"Come with me, Mr. Ioyomah." Spock gestures in the direction of the rubble. The transporter glow illuminates another piece of equipment arriving. "Time is indeed of the essence."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Since establishing connection with Anon, McCoy has alternated between his quarters and his office in Sickbay. Currently he's in Sickbay, scrubbing his face, neck, and head. How can he still be cleared for duty? He certainly has no idea. He wouldn't clear himself, were it up to him, which technically it is at the moment. He towels himself down. Shirtless and still unshaven, haggard beyond all recognition, he sits at his desk and puts his feet up. He grinds his fists into his eyes.

" _How are you holding out?_ "

" _You're here_ ," Anon answers, " _so I'm okay. How about yourself? You need to sleep. You haven't even napped. I'll be okay, really, I'm sure I will_."

" _I can't. I keep waiting for you to go unconscious. I don't understand why you haven't – it's usually an automatic. Then I'd try to get in an hour or so. … Wait a moment._ " McCoy pauses and leans toward his console. " _Uhura just messaged me that the Enterprise is out of warp and in orbit around Reynos 3. Don't get too excited. She says it will still take a bunch of hours to dig you out._ "

" _I don't mind. It will happen. Maybe then I can stop thinking about …"_

" _I know._ "

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

On Reynos 3, thirty-four hours later: The equipment was transported to the surface and assembled. Ioyomah found a frequency, several of them in fact, that enabled the mineral to firm up and form the walls of a tunnel as the excavation proceeded. Very carefully, the excavation took place, with Ioyomah and Groome constantly checking the stability of the rescue drilling.

Finally, Groome calls Spock over. "We're in. Found a tunnel anyway, secured the intersection. Hopefully the tunnel. If my numbers are right, we should find her a hundred meters to our left."

"What are the conditions in the tunnel you uncovered?" Spock asked.

"Stable," Ioyomah answered. "Maybe ceiling height of 1.6 meters. Very wet. Air is okay. You said her hand or arm is pinned? Groome and I will go first with an Archimedes lift to get whatever it is off her hand. We'll set up work lights, too. The doctor …"

"Chenoweth," Spock interjects.

"Chenoweth should follow us. Someone with the gurney after that, someone short who will be okay with the 1.6-meter height. Do we have hats for all?"

"Yes, we do. I'll notify the Enterprise of our status." Spock relays the good news. As a Vulcan, he feels no elation, merely satisfaction, at accomplishing the next phase of the rescue.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

On the Enterprise, in Sickbay, McCoy's office. He's sitting at his desk, feet on the floor, gripping the edge of the desk in a desperate effort to keep himself upright, much the worse for wear for the thirty-four additional sleepless hours. Nevertheless, he retains his focus on Anon.

" _Uhura said they were entering the mine – Ioyomah, Groome, Chenoweth, and a botanist, Mandela, apparently because she's short._ "

" _Sure_." McCoy recognizes that Anon has reached her limit as well, hardly able to follow the narrative.

" _Can you see lights, yet?_ "

" _I can't lift my head. Sorry_."

" _No, I'm sorry. I didn't realize_." Had she told him that already? He can't recall.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Proceeding gingerly through the mine, Ioyomah spots a non-metallic, un-mineral-ish blob.

"Groome, there she is! Pass it back, we found her."

Groome calls over her shoulder. "Chenoweth, we found her." The series of calls communicating status to the outside floats through the mine.

"Hey, Anon, we've come to get you out of here. It's us, it's Cacophony to the rescue." Ioyomah is a day-and-a-half without sleep and is dithering, more than a bit.

Anon whispers, "Hey."

"She's alive. Pass it back!" Ioyomah's joy is contagious. Another series of calls. Ioyomah and Groome plant lights to illuminate Anon and the boulder pinning her hand, as well as others squeezing her body of which she was mercifully unaware. Ioyomah shines a hand-held lamp beyond her body and up the slope. "What's up there?"

Chenoweth arrives on the scene, cranes her neck to see. "That would be the bubble that deployed. Looks like it blocked a rock fall. Not how it was designed to work, but it saved her life after all. Good, good, okay..." Like everyone else on this mission she is her wit's end. Literally.

Ioyomah reaches for Anon. "Let me just get your head out of the water, Anon my friend."

"Don't touch her!" Chenoweth's cry is too late.

All, including Chenoweth, are stricken with both pain and grief, as is McCoy back on the Enterprise. Chenoweth has the presence of mind to push forward past Groome and slide her gloved hands under Anon's head while shouldering Ioyomah away.

Anon whispers, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Not a problem, Anon," Chenoweth says, soothing as best she can while beating back her shared agony. "Not a problem. You look good."

"I smell awful. Been lying in my own piss for three days. I'm so thirsty. Can't feel my hand anymore. I'm going to lose it, aren't I. It's gone."

"You're fine, Anon, just fine. I'm going to tranq you now, so we don't cause you any more pain extracting your hand. Ready?'

"No. Don't." Anon is out.

"Okay, let's get her the hell out of here." Chenoweth is grimly elated, as only a person who has been expecting the worst while hoping for the best can be.

Ioyomah looks apprehensively at Anon. What just happened here? He steps past her and gets to work setting up the Archimedes lift with Groome.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

In Sickbay, McCoy staggers out of his office like the madman he is. Sleep deprivation psychosis is a strange and terrible thing.

"Where is she?" He roars. "What have you done?"

Rollins is way, way behind the curve. "McCoy, what's going on? Take it easy."

"She was there but now she's gone! Did you kill her? So help me god …"

Chapel punches the communication console. "We need Security in Sickbay. STAT." She punches another series. "Sickbay to Bridge. Captain Kirk, please come to Sickbay."

Rollins finally is on board. On board with a lunatic. "You mean Anon? McCoy, we just got word they found her. Chenoweth is with her. We don't know anything about her condition yet. Be patient. They'll get her to the Enterprise as fast as they can. You'll be the first to know." Rollins wonders: Did someone cut off his balls? His voice is very, very, very high.

"Dammit Rollins, where did she go?" McCoy has heard not a word.

Security arrives. Chapel motions at them to wait. Where is Kirk?

Rollins is sweating bricks. "When did you last get any sleep, McCoy? Anon was found, she's safe now, I swear to you, you can rest. She'll be delivered straight to Sickbay, safe and sound and …"

Kirk finally arrives. McCoy swings his head around to stare at him. _Who is this asshole again?_

"McCoy." McCoy shakes his head, pounds it with the heels of his hands. "Bones."

"Jim. She was in my head. I heard her just fine. She said she stank. She said she was thirsty. She said, she said no. Then she was gone. They've taken her."

"She always says no!" Rollins is near hysterics. "Every time I say anything to her she says no! That means she's good!"

Kirk by contrast is calm and steady. "She was found alive. You're right, she is fine. Look at me." Chapel has handed Rollins an injector, and he is edging closer to McCoy. Kirk tries to keep McCoy's attention. "Eyes on me! She is fine. She's coming to Sickbay. She'll be here any moment. Bones, look at me."

Rollins lunges, injects McCoy with the tranquilizer. McCoy, enraged, takes a pitiful swing at Rollins, then his knees buckle. Kirk moves forward and catches him. "You're relieved of duty, my friend." Kirk embraces him powerfully but tenderly. "Where's the best spot for him to sleep it off?"

Rollins gestures to the nearest bed. "Here is good. Let me help." Kirk and Rollins lift McCoy onto the table. Rollins engages the restraints.

"Is that really necessary?" Kirk protests.

"I have no idea." Rollins is still struggling to catch his breath. "I've never seen sleep-deprived psychosis before. I'm not taking any chances."


	20. Chapter 20

**Section 6: The Scream**

 **Chapter 6d: They That Mourn Shall Have Comfort**

Hours later in Sickbay, McCoy wakes up, wriggles, and realizes he is in restraints.

"Oh, for ... Rollins." He waits. "Chenoweth." Waits some more. "Chapel. Rollins."

Rollins appears. "Here, McCoy. Glad to see you awake. I think." He aims the tricorder at McCoy. "You're looking much better."

"Get me out of this thing." McCoy nods his head towards the restraints.

"Answer some questions. Where are you?"

"Sickbay. Ward 1. You're Rollins. Where is Anon? What is her condition?"

"I'm asking the questions," Rollins contends. "You're relieved of duty until I like the answers. What's the last thing you remember?"

McCoy closes his eyes. "Anon said no. Then she was gone. What happened after that?"

"You had a … you were … confused." Rollins chickens out of an honest answer, then rallies. "You're still asking questions."

"It's what I do. Get me out of this thing." McCoy is more or less recovered, clearly.

"All right, McCoy." Rollins opens the restraints.

McCoy sits up, swings his legs over the side of the table. He stretches his upper body, then looks at himself in confusion. "Where's my shirt?"

Rollins can be only so sympathetic. He too is exhausted, and snaps in irritation. "How would I know? Your quarters? Your office? I've been helping Chenoweth in surgery. Chapel has been keeping an eye on you. She let me know when you woke up."

"Surgery." McCoy tries to focus. "Anon?"

"Yes. There were no life-threatening injuries. Chenoweth glued her head back together – calm down, I exaggerate! It was a line fracture! Minor! And reconstructed the whole shebang – her hand, wrist, radius and ulna. I'm glad you told us to work on a variety of approaches for Anon's species. I came up with a promising one for osteo growth, and it looks like her bones will heal quickly. She was severely dehydrated, but we rehydrated her and pumped her full of calories and nutrients. She was filthy and will probably want to shower five times a day for the rest of her life. But she's fine, McCoy, really."

"Can I see her?"

"Can you control yourself?"

McCoy sighs deeply. "Yes. Whatever I did or said, Rollins, I didn't mean it. Whatever it was."

Rollins is somewhat mollified. "She's still under, but you can look at her if you need the reassurance. Then I'm releasing you to your quarters, understand? Sleep, clean up, shave, change your clothes, eat something. Come back when the Captain says so, not before."

"I'm thinking it's a good thing I can't remember."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Anon is in Sickbay, standing and dressed in clean clothes, being scanned by Rollins. Her left arm and hand are immobilized; her head is partially shaved and has a long patch, more or less her skin color, on the right side. Her face is empty.

Rollins finishes the out-take tricorder scan. "Everything looks good to me. How do you feel?

"I just want to go home." Anon's voice is a monotone. "To my quarters."

"That was not my question." Rollins voice is more gentle than his words.

Anon explodes, out of all proportion, "Why do you people do this? I feel fine to go home. And I want to. It's the same thing."

Chapel's patience has limits, and they have been reached. "'We people' care about your well-being, Soli Anon. I suspect that right now we care about that more than you do. And, yes, we do think you should be released back to your quarters. It will be best for you. I'll walk with you. Come."

Chapel offers her arm, but Anon walks head down without reacting.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Some hours later, McCoy is in his quarters. There's an empty plate on his counter, he is clean-shaven and pulls on a fresh shirt. He picks up a comb, runs it through his hair. Then he speaks into the communications console.

"McCoy to Bridge."

It's Kirk, over the intercom. "Welcome back, stranger."

"Request reinstatement."

It's not so easy. Kirk saw what he saw. "I want to hear from your doctor first, Bones. Meet me in Sickbay. Ten minutes."

"Right." He pokes at the console.

McCoy closes his eyes. Thinks: " _Soli are you there? Please come back_." No response.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

The original Cacophony quartet of Ioyomah, Groome, Simbollah, and Barilo, along with their instruments that are strewn on the floor, are anxiously waiting for Anon in the corridor outside her quarters. When Chapel and Anon arrive they descend upon them both eagerly and tenderly. There is a babble of voices, "Anon, you're here. Thank god. I'm so sorry, Anon. You're back, you're safe." Chapel steps between Cacophony and Anon.

"Careful of the arm," she barks.

More babbling: "Oh, sorry, sorry. Can I hug you sideways? Oops."

Anon is overcome. She was on the way to isolating herself in her quarters, but finds herself surrounded by loving friends instead. "Thank you. Oh, thank you. I can't … I just …" Her eyes do what they do.

Chapel is visibly relieved. "You're in good hands, dear. Let her in her quarters, folks."

Cacophony separates to allow Anon to open her door. They pick up their instruments and follow her in. Chapel returns to Sickbay for the time being.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Once they are in Anon's quarters, they resume embracing her and murmuring words of support. She accepts their expressions of love, but stands stiffly, bewildered as to how she should respond.

Ioyomah as usual is the spokesman. "Everyone is worried about you, Anon. Janay was …"

"Yah."

"I've messaged the Movie Night club that you're back." Anon turns to Groome, trying to absorb her words. "People will come over on their breaks and stuff. I hope you don't mind."

"No, of course not. I don't ... I'll just … Computer. Open the door and leave it open …" The door opens. "It feels … I feel much better to have you here. My friends. I don't want to be alone."

Barilo is encouraged. "Ioyomah and Groome were actually doing something to help, so Simbollah and I decided to Nakai some arrangements for music you might want to hear. You don't have to if… you know …"

"I do know. That's sweet, Barilo. I need music right now, and I can't play any myself." She holds up her lonely right hand. "Go ahead. I'll just listen."

People are starting to arrive. They do what people do at wakes. Condolences to Anon, hugs, blessings, murmurings.

"We didn't have any practice time together, so the arrangements are really simple," Simbollah apologizes. "We'll play the original orchestration on your console, and just accompany that with our own, okay?"

"Of course. It will be lovely."

"It's Ravel."

"Of course. Barilo, Ravel has been going through my head for three days."

Barilo smiles tentatively. "Yes. It was the first thing that came to me."

The music starts, and Cacophony plays along. More band members arrive, set up, and play. More mourners arrive. The room is filled and spilling out into the corridor. Anon gradually shrinks from her duties, then suddenly squares her shoulders.

"Computer, pause." The recording stops, as does Cacophony, raggedly. Anon casually leaps on top of her chair. The yellow shirts and red shirts gasp in horror; the blue shirts are blasé. A rolling chair compared to the balance sphere cairns is kindergarten, even with only one arm. All grow quiet; most of them have never heard her speak. "I'm sorry, Cacophony, but Janay would hate this. She would not want us to be grieving and crying. We need to celebrate her. Janay, the first day we met, I quoted to her 'Life is a banquet, and …" Anon's voice breaks. She stops. Several voices complete the quote: "Most poor suckers are starving to death!"

Ioyomah reaches out his hand, grasps her right hand. She smiles at him and continues. "Thanks. That was it. It was her, her words to live by. And then there was the music. She was kind, so kind, and indulged my music, my music geekhood, even when she didn't connect with it. And then, but she discovered one old, old piece that she just loved. She said … Janay said, 'This is me!' and she would dance around my quarters, into the corridor, pick up partners and just keep galloping away until it ended."

Anon stops again. Ioyomah squeezes her hand. As a fellow stammerer, he knows how difficult this is for her, and the pressure of his strong grip helps her; she ploughs on. "I know she swept you guys into it, because I saw you, right?" Murmurs of "I remember that." "What was that?" spread through the room. "Its subtitle is 'Over the Hills and Far Away,' which is what she completely bought into, being a Starfleet geologist, a field scientist." Her voice breaks again. "I can Nakai some parts for Cacophony, or you guys can dance instead, or both. But Janay would be so happy for all of us to dance, to celebrate her precious, precious, joyful life."

The music begins; as soon as the melody kicks in, Anon jumps off the chair, grabs Ioyomah's arm, gallops, jigs, prances, then hurls him to another, grabs Simbollah as a new partner and goes off again. Within minutes the dancing has engaged all the mourners, even, maybe especially, the weepers.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Most of the mourners move from Anon's quarters to the corridors, which is where McCoy encounters them. He watches, dazed, as these profoundly grieving individuals, tears streaming down their faces, red shirts, blue shirts, yellow shirts, laugh and sob, dance and stomp, to the lively music. As it ends, he hears a voice cry out, in eerie imitation of Andersen, "Again, again!" Anon had programmed her computer well to respond to that, and it obediently starts to replay the piece. McCoy edges to the doorway, looking for Anon.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

As soon as she was able to launch the dancing, Anon distanced herself from it, and wedged herself into a corner of her room. She crouched, as small as she could make herself. Simbollah is the first to notice her disappearance; she had switched from dancing to tootling her flute, but now puts down her instrument and searches for her friend. When she spots her, she goes to her, reaching to hold Anon's free hand tightly. Simbollah is shortly followed by Ioyomah, who embraces Anon unabashedly, then Barilo and Groome, who each place a hand on Anon's knees. Unconsciously, the Cacophony founders extend their free hands to form a closed circle.

Blue shirts sense the circle – Manniar, Karlten, Mitchell, and quickly the rest of the Away Team – and move to join it, each one touching Anon and another member of the circle. Two yellow shirts, first Kevintek, then Martinez, drift over and fit into the cluster.

Their movement catches McCoy's attention, so that he finally sees Anon, surrounded by her fellow music geeks, field scientists, and security pals, embraced and embracing. He watches and finally enters the room, maneuvering past the dancers. Joining the support group around Anon – she seems unaware of him and very far away – McCoy is startled, then grateful, at their instant inclusion of him in the group.

Not for the first time, and not for the last time, he wonders at the nature of Anon's people. Based on his experience, he can tell she is not directly transmitting nor receiving, yet she is clearly soaking up the love her friends feel for her in her time of need, while extending the love and affection she feels for them in turn. He and the others surrounding her, touching her, are experiencing simultaneously the deep grief of loss and the serenity of love. Yet they are not touching her skin, and he knows how much broader the reach would be if they did – would it be better for all the mourners? Would it horrify them?

McCoy unconsciously extends a hand; puzzled, he looks up and sees Chapel. She takes his hand, kneels and also touches Anon. She had come up behind him; how did he know the nurse was there?

McCoy in his youth learned about sitting shiva. This is similar, he reflects, less oriented toward the practical because Starfleet takes care of all physical needs, but far more expressively, emotionally intense. He loves Anon; he loved Andersen; he mourns Andersen, he loves Anon. He stays for a long while, contributing his own measure of mourning and comfort, then slips away. He wonders how long the feelings of support, the gratitude of survival, the connection of shared loss that he has experienced with this impromptu circle can last. He wonders whether Anon ever knew he was present.


	21. Chapter 21

**Section 7: Postlude**

 **Chapter 7a: What's Goin' On**

Some twenty-two days later, the Enterprise's mission on Lopre 2 has finally concluded. With or without the complications of a rescue mission to Reynos 3, assisting with the relief efforts took considerable time and effort, not to mention the unexpected complications of dealing with political corruption and environmental catastrophe. Security, Engineering, and Medical departments were flat out, and R & R wasn't even a concept much less a reality. Victorino, Scott, and McCoy spent the entire twenty-two days on Lopre 2, while rotating their teams between the planet and the ship.

We shall not go into detail about these mission complications, because this is not that story. You will have to find another source for that story. The many complications did, however, affect our story.

McCoy kept his mind open to Anon, but she made no neural contact. He messaged her, and she always responded, kindly but vaguely – be safe, I'm assigned to other labs, be careful, come back soon – and she never initiated communication. He smothered his worries in work as he always did, focusing on the job at hand until he could return, safely of course.

Being able to delay the Reynos 3 mission briefing was a blessing, and not at all in disguise. Over the passage of time, most crew were able to accept the unacceptable, and bear the unbearable. Most of them managed.

Those readers who have been paying attention (There cannot be any readers still loitering here who have not paid attention, really, can there?) know that Anon has not managed in any way to accept and bear the unacceptable and unbearable. She went to Sickbay four times, on orders, for check-ups with the doctor on duty or for scans by technicians, and was assured she was healing properly. With her one functioning arm, she assisted in other labs when requested, leaving her Reynos 3 samples unopened temporarily. Good riddance to them. She was otherwise on her own except for the persistent presence of Cacophony. Thank the gods, symbolically or on faith, for Cacophony.

Anon initiated no rehearsals (I should say "rehearsals," for rehearsals were just an excuse to stay in contact.) with her bandmates and indeed seldom left her quarters without orders, but no matter. Like the other engineers, they were swapped on and off the Enterprise, but they came to her whenever any of them was available, they set up and played, and she never, not once, turned them away. Simbollah took to coming early to practice and leaving late, pleading and coaxing for Anon to visit Sickbay ("No."), see a counselor ("No."), rest ("I can't."), and eat ("I'm trying.") while becoming ever more alarmed at the obvious deterioration of her friend's health and demeanor.

Even Simbollah's ultimate, desperate threat, "If you don't talk to Dr. McCoy when he gets back, I will!" elicited no more than a despondent shrug.

"Talk to him if you want. He's not my doctor." Anon always stopped short of saying "He's the Boyfriend." Of course Andersen had been right about telling her music friends about her neural condition. It would have helped in this terrifying circumstance, but Anon can't, not on her own anyway, figure out how to expose yet another vulnerability right now.

The senior officers, each in his or her own way, have also struggled with the loss of the junior officer, and gratefully put off the Reynos 3 briefing in favor of the Lopre 2 mission. They also put off the Reynos 3 briefing in favor of the Lopre 2 briefing, until it could be delayed no longer.

Kirk delivers the closing words. "So I will be putting in for commendations for you, Scotty and Victorino, and support your commendations for your people, and for yours Bones. Well done. If that is all, I'm closing the briefing regarding the Lopre 2 mission. Let's take a short break, and then get Mitchell, Martinez and Anon in here for the Reynos 3 briefing, god help us."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

In Anon's quarters an insistent bell is sounding. She is sitting in front to the console, ear buds in, swaying rhythmically, a constant tremble exposed by her right hand. Her left hand is still immobilized against her chest. Her eyes are closed. They open to show the film of the third eyelid.

"Computer. Repeat the 'Calm Yourself, Soli' set. Again. Again." She breathes deeply and evenly, and the membrane retracts, though she is still trembling. She closes her eyes again. The intercom comes to life.

It is Uhura's voice. "Ensign Anon. Please report to the Ready Room for debriefing."

No reaction. Anon's eyes are still closed, upper body still swaying, bell still ringing. This time the console flashes and displays Uhura's message, and the intercom repeats it.

"Ensign Anon. Please report to the Ready Room for debriefing."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

The blue shirt Mitchell and the yellow shirt Martinez have joined the senior officers in the Ready Room. Uhura turns from her communications console.

"Still no response, Captain. Scan indicates she is in her quarters, but …"

McCoy interrupts. "She's listening to music. Probably with her eyes closed."

"She's late for my briefing," Kirk corrects him. "I'm not interested in what she's doing instead, Bones. She had notice yesterday. Did she acknowledge, Uhura?"

Uhura answers reluctantly. "She did, Captain."

"Bones, you said you can communicate with her. Why don't you …"

"I can only talk to her if she initiates it. She hasn't. Why don't I …"

Kirk cuts him off. "Mr. Spock, please go to Anon's quarters and drag our recalcitrant ensign to the Ready Room."

"Yes, Captain." Spock rises and exits the room.

It doesn't bode well for Kirk to enter into a briefing like this. McCoy tries again. "She's not recalcitrant, Jim. She's grieving."

"That's as may be, Bones. But she is attending my briefing, and she will report."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Anon still sits, still with the ear buds, still with closed eyes, still not hearing the sounding bell. The only difference is that now her right elbow is planted in front of her, so she is resting her forehead on the heel of her shaking hand. The door chime sounds. No response. Rinse and repeat. Spock comes in, having overridden the door controls. He observes for a moment, then strides to the console and turns off the music. Anon starts, flustered.

"Mr. Spock! Why are you … oh the briefing! I meant to set my alarm. I did set my alarm." She slaps at the console and the bell stops. "I'm so sorry. I'm coming right now." In pushing back her chair, she knocks it over. She is still trembling.

"Ensign Anon." She hears his tone and stands at attention, fighting the tremors to no avail. "You are to go to the Ready Room for the briefing. You will report on the incident on Reynos 3, and you will answer all questions put to you. You will deport yourself as befits a member of the crew of the Enterprise. And you will not waste the Captain's time with your private sorrow. Integrate that on your own time."

"Yes sir. Yes, Mr. Spock." Anon reaches to pick up her field pad.

"That will not be necessary, Ensign. All your field notes have been entered in ship's log. You just need to add detail as required."

"Yes sir. Yes, Mr. Spock."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Anon and Spock enter the Ready Room. Mitchell is seated at the conference table, Martinez in a chair along the wall. McCoy is shocked by her appearance. Her face is thin; her eyes dark and sunken, vacant. Why did his team not tell him about her deterioration? Why in god's name didn't she tell him?

"Take your seat, Ensign," Kirk intones. "I'm sorry for your loss. Lieutenant Andersen was a valuable member of our crew and is and will be sorely missed." Spock points to a chair next to Martinez, and Anon slides into it.

"Yes sir." Anon is rigid, chin lifted, dull eyes straight ahead. She discreetly slides her right hand under her leg to conceal the tremble. Unfortunately for that strategy, her legs also are shaking.

Kirk turns his attention back to the blue shirt. "We'll begin now, Lieutenant Mitchell. Your field notes are displayed before you. Do you have anything to add before questioning?"

"Yes, sir," Mitchell responds. "After we beamed onto Reynos 3, I studied our surroundings. Environmental disturbance can be detected for centuries afterward due to the presence of invasive or non-native plants. I observed foliage nearby and in the distance that was inconsistent with foliage on the hill where the geologists were assigned,"

"You mean Lieutenant Andersen and Ensign Anon." No one has ever accused Mr. Spock of sensitivity. In many ways he would have fit in well with the Ktak. Of course Mitchell didn't want to mention their names; now she has to deal with her feelings about what happened, not just the facts. Her issue, not Mr. Spock's. Fortunately, she is not a weeper.

"Andersen and Anon, yes," she continues steadily. "In my opinion, what I saw was evidence of a planting, at least decades ago, probably a century or more, of trees that were not present anywhere else in the vicinity, even though the growing conditions were the same. I lopped back their branches and roots until I found the mine entrance. I will never forgive myself. Is that all you need?"

A dust mote landing could have been heard in the silence that followed Mitchell's testimony. Kirk filled the void. "Thank you for your information and analysis, Lieutenant Mitchell. Unless Mr. Spock has any further questions, I believe your testimony is completed."

"I am satisfied," Mr. Spock responds. Mitchell stands and exits the Ready Room, glancing back at her friend Uhura and Andersen's friend Anon. Mitchell may not be a weeper, but she's on the edge.

Kirk turns his attention to the yellow shirt. "We'll begin now, Mr. Martinez. Your field notes are displayed before you. Do you have anything to add before questioning?"

"Yes sir. I think so, sir. That tree she hung her gear on, sir …"

"'She.' Do you mean Lieutenant Andersen?"

"Yes sir. That tree Janay, I mean, the Lieutenant, hung her gear on, sir …"

Spock interjects, "We have pix of the entrance prior to the collapse. Here. Which tree?"

"Yes sir." Martinez points. "That one. It looked perfectly strong. But I mean, before she hung her gear on it, I wasn't sure what was going on. The Lieutenant was talking, really quiet, into her tricorder. I probably should have moved closer so …"

Spock interrupts. "You say she spoke quietly? Did you hear Ensign Anon's voice? Did you hear what either of them said?"

"Yes, sir. No, sir. I mean, the Lieutenant spoke quietly, and I couldn't hear the Ensign at all."

"That is perplexing," Spock remarks. McCoy shoots a look at Anon, but she still stares straight ahead. Spock resumes the briefing. "In any event, Andersen hung her hat and her pack on branches of the tree you identified."

"Yes, sir. She took off her gear, hung it on the tree, more like the roots than the branches, I think, looking at the pix now. She got out the ropes and some spike things. She told me to stay close and report to you, sir, whatever I saw. She was pulling the gear off the tree to put it back on her, when the whole hill caved in … "Martinez's voice has been growing agitated, and now he is sobbing. He is tough as nails, but is not ashamed to also be a weeper.

Victorino barks harshly, "Martinez. Report."

Martinez's breathing is ragged, but he responds to his commanding officer and continues. "Sir, yes sir. The whole hill caved in. The tree looked stable but the whole hill caved in. I ran to Janay, but I was too slow. Too damn slow. I grabbed her arm and tried to pull her out, but she died right in front of me. I reacted too slowly. It was my fault."

"Her hard hat was equipped with a bubble," Spock comments. "How did it deploy?"

"The bubble." Martinez searches back mentally and remembers. "Yes, it deployed from all the stuff that fell on it, but she wasn't wearing it. She had to take off the hard hat to take off the backpack to get to her gear. So it didn't protect her, no. Neither did I, sir. I didn't do my one job."

Uhura's eyes have welled up, and she is fighting the inevitable. "Mr. Martinez. Please remember. The last thing she saw was the face of someone who loved her. The last thing she felt was her hand in yours. You did your job so very well. Take heart." Her tears fall. She is not usually a weeper, but she loved Andersen deeply and hasn't fully mourned her yet.

Martinez nods but cannot reply.

"Thank you for your information and evaluation, Mr. Martinez," Kirk says. "You are dismissed."

Martinez stands and exits. Anon is still erect in her chair against the wall. She has had no visible reaction either to Mitchell's nor Martinez's report. If anything, she is further away. Spock clears his throat, and gestures towards the chair left empty by the departure of the yellow shirt. She moves to it and sits.

Kirk opens Anon's portion of the briefing. "Ensign Anon. Your field notes are in front of you on the console. Please expand upon them. Mr. Spock, please conduct any additional questioning as you see fit."

"Of course, Captain. Ensign Anon, please fill in details to complete your field notes."

"Yes sir, Mr. Spock." Anon stares at the console. "As the Geo Team we … Lieutenant Andersen and I … were assigned to analyze the anomaly. The rock or mineral that was impenetrable to Starfleet's probes. We thought at first that we would just take soil samples from the hill to which we were transported, but then we discovered, well, Mitchell uncovered it, that there was a mine, dug into the hill. A mine implied intelligent life, and we had been operating under the assumption that the planet was uninhabited. We notified Mr. Spock.

"Extra security was deployed for this contingency; we continued the mission. We … Geologists hate mines, Captain Kirk. They're very dangerous, usually unstable, a lot of times flooded. We'd have gone in together, but the nature of the mineral meant that anybody inside couldn't communicate by instrument to outside. Mr. Spock said one of us should be outside the mine to stay in touch with the rest of the Away team. I was the junior crew, so I went into the mine. If Janay had gone instead…"

"No speculation, Ensign," Spock cautioned. "Report the facts only."

"Yes sir. I went in. Within six paces – four meters – the floor started to slope down at a ten-degree angle. I told Janay … Lieutenant Andersen that the first 20 meters of the mine looked very unstable, structurally. There were no visible supports. The roots of the trees and shrubs had cracked it and made it crumbly, and it was barely holding together. I took some pix so that the botanists could estimate how long the trees had been working through the rocks. It would help us know how long the mine had been abandoned."

"Would these be the pix?" Spock displays a set of black rectangles.

"Oh. Those probably have to be enhanced."

"I would say so, Ensign," Kirk said dryly.

Spock is more charitable. "We already made an effort to do that. Now that we know what we are looking for, we shall try again. If enhancement is still unsuccessful, you will be required to sketch what you observed."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Spock."

"Please continue."

Anon retrieves her thoughts with an obvious effort. "After I got through the crumbly part, the rock, the mineral, seemed to have more the appearance of a tunnel. I thought I was home. It looked the same, felt the same, smelled the same, tasted the same …"

"Tasted?" Kirk asked, incredulous "You tasted the walls."

"Yes, sir. All the senses. All the senses." Anon is drifting, remembering her first conversation on this subject, long ago.

Spock brings her back. "What do you mean, home? Your native planet? Bolarus IX?"

"Ktak. Where I was brought up. Before I went to Bolarus IX." McCoy glances at Spock. Here we jolly well are. At last.

"I never heard of this planet. Ktak?" Kirk leans back in his chair. "Tell us about it. I know it's a diversion, Spock, but indulge me."

"I lived on Ktak for most of my childhood, sir. Ktak is … concealed. The people no longer live on the surface. They lined their tunnels and chambers with this mineral or something very like it. I didn't understand – I was a child, and I pulled off pieces to play with – but if it was this impenetrable mineral, it must have been to hide themselves from the Federation sensors. They were well aware of the Federation, sir. Keeper told me about it, she said … Well, that's off-topic." Anon drifts again, then resumes. "Between the mineral lining and the illusions, they haven't been found by any Starfleet vessels yet."

"The illusions?"

Anon hesitates; the curse of her stammering is that an interview like this lasts twice as long, so she tries to formulate her thoughts concisely. "The Ktak can get in people's heads, neurally send and receive sounds and images of the world around them; they also can send false images and sounds. When Federation ships approach, they give the illusion to the crew that instrument readings are showing Ktak as just a barren, rocky planet. They started doing that the first time a ship's scientist noticed the odd readings from the mineral lining and wanted to take a closer look. Next thing you know, oh never mind, instrument readings are normal after all, and the ship moved on."

"Fascinating," responds Spock. "What is their communication range? That is, how far away could a ship be for them to influence the crew?"

"Maybe as much as 400,000 kilometers."

"If you are satisfied, Captain," says Spock. "I would like to return to the Reynos 3 briefing. However, Anon, I will certainly pursue this area at another time."

"Quite right, Mr. Spock." Kirk too is satisfied for the present. "Go ahead, Anon. You were talking about the walls of the mine."

"The same walls as from Ktak. And the illumination from my head lamp was the same. Light was absorbed, not reflected. I looked for evidence of the light fixtures the Ktak had used. Fixtures, rusted artifacts, holes at the right height, the right configuration. I got a sample of debris that looked promising. I also collected several mineral samples. I was doing my job as I was trained. Oh god…" She's drifting again.

Spock, sharply: "Ensign." Then more evenly. "Report. What did you see? What happened next? In detail."

"Yes, sir. I followed the wall, closely. I didn't realize it was bending away until Lieutenant Andersen told me she couldn't see me."

"She told you. Mr. Martinez just said he couldn't hear her. You were 82 meters away and yet you heard her. How is that possible?"

Uh-oh, here we are. Hey, no problem – she just disregards the question. "I … I heard her. Then I noticed there was no more light from outside. I stopped. I tried to retrieve the additional hand lighting in my pack. To do that, I had to remove my hard hat, and then remove my pack. I'm very strong, Mr. Spock, but I couldn't manage my pack. There was no light, I had to have light, so I had to take off my hard hat and my pack. I'm sorry, I know it was against protocol…"

"We are not assigning blame." Spock's wish to be rational keeps being derailed by the fact that Janay Andersen was absolutely, completely beloved. McCoy had wondered how long the comfort and serenity of the support circle would last for Anon. Now it can be revealed. It didn't even last a day, and here we are twenty days on. "Please continue your report. Facts and detail only."

"Yes, sir." Her voice cracks, and Anon pauses for a long moment. "I removed my hard hat. I set it on the ground. For at least minimal illumination. I removed my pack. When I swung it around I lost my footing. It was wet, and I made a misstep, stupid, stupid, down a slope. I kept my grip on my pack. That's how I was trained – never ever lose your gear. I slid down. It wasn't steep enough to be a shaft, I calculated sixty degrees, but it was a little while – I don't know how far – before I stopped sliding. I was uninjured. I told … Andersen … not to come down. That I would get my hand lights from my pack and determine the best way back up. I hadn't finished getting samples yet. I told her… I told her to wait. Until…"

"On your own time, Ensign." Spock reminds her. "Remember. On your own time."

"Yes, sir." Anon is short of breath, McCoy recognizes the symptoms and clenches his fists: she is fighting off a full-blown panic attack. "Yes, Mr. Spock. I heard her say something to the yellow shirt. Excuse me, to Mr. Martinez. I don't remember what she said because I was telling her … Next thing I knew, the entrance to the mine was collapsing. I saw it …I felt … I tried to climb the slope to get to her. Janay died. She went away." Hyperventilating again. At least this time she knows what it is and fights to slow her breathing.

"Ensign! Compose yourself."

"Yes, sir. Yes, Mr. Spock. Yes. The mine collapsed. I heard the rock fall approaching. I … grabbed my pack. I pressed myself against the wall. Tried to keep moving away. Boulders. Boulders tumbled down the slope. One hit my head, and I fell. Another rock. My hand. I don't know what else. I don't remember."

There is silence for a moment; Spock breaks it. "You experienced a fractured skull. You were fortunate to be in a place where the floor was wet and cool. Dr. Chenoweth told me that reduced swelling considerably."

"Fortunate. Yah, I'll keep that in mind. That helps a lot."

"Sarcasm is not called for, Ensign." Kirk chides her but not severely.

"I'm sorry, sir, Captain, sir. Are there any more questions? I'm really sorry. I do want to help."

"Yes." Kirk has been patient by his lights, and now dives in to his primary concern. "Thank you for the additional details to your field report. But afterward? You were out cold, for a day and a half. Then what happened?"

"I … woke up. I called … for help. Mr. Spock's rescue team found me and … rescued me. Anything else?"

At last Kirk is off and running. "What do you think you're doing, Ensign? You 'called for help.' That does not begin to describe what you did. I will …" He is leaning forward aggressively. "What's wrong with your eyes?"

Anon and McCoy respond together: "Nothing's wrong with my/her eyes. It's normal for my/her species."

McCoy finally intercedes. "Jim. Stop." Kirk recovers himself, sits back. "Soli. Ensign. You were alone. You cried out. I heard you; you found me; you calmed down." Anon's clouded eyes blink rapidly. McCoy rushes on. "We stayed together, it's okay. But when you called out … everyone heard you. The Away Team on the shuttle craft heard you, the crew of the Enterprise orbiting Lopre 2 heard you. The citizens of Lopre 2 heard you. It caused emergency measures on the Enterprise and a panic on Lopre 2."

"Oh. I didn't realize. Nobody told me. That's why …" Anon turns from McCoy to Kirk. "My profound apologies, Captain. I'll accept without defense any punishment you impose." She suddenly realizes that her secret is exposed, at least to the attending senior officers, and shrinks down in her chair.

"Ensign, this is not a hearing. It is a briefing." Spock is weary of the guilt and the apologies. "You will focus on your testimony."

"I'm trying to, sir. What additional reporting do you require?"

Spock tries to keep the focus on science, not security, in an effort to avoid Kirk's pique. "We need a clear understanding of what you did, how it happened, how to avoid it in the future, whether it played a part in the events on Reynos 3."

"What I did is neural communication. It is a capability of my species, just like … I don't know how it works, and I do avoid using it. That …"

Kirk interrupts. It is his briefing after all. "Stop. Isn't that what you just described on Ktak? Is that your species or not? Is Ktak your home?"

"No, sir, no. I truly don't know my home or my species." Once more into the breach. "The Ktak took me from my home to study me precisely because my species has the same ability to communicate neurally that they do. They could take me because my people are at a stone-age level and couldn't protect me. Keeper said we – my people – are the only other ones who do neural communication. I don't know whether that is true, but I do know she believed it to be true."

Uhura has a question. "Ensign Anon, when I was compiling your field notes with those of Andersen, there were several times when there were gaps in your conversations, and when I could hear you again, the subject appeared to have been changed. I ascribed that to instrument failure due to the material in the mine. Was that the case, or were you having a neural conversation?"

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant, we were communicating neurally," Anon answers. "That's why we were able to talk quietly into our tricorders, instead of yelling. And when I thought of the Ktak, I didn't want it in my field notes. I had told Janay, I mean Andersen years ago about the Ktak. But mostly people don't believe me, so I don't talk about it." She doesn't mention having told McCoy. Still keeping her own counsel, still keeping secrets. The Bolian academic and performance records Spock investigated in detail did not include any of the psych evaluation material, and McCoy has not revealed to Spock what Tepem learned and passed along to him. He recognizes that he will have to have that conversation with Spock soon, despite his reservations, but not during this briefing.

Spock continues the questioning. "You were in neural communication with the Lieutenant while you were in the mine. And with most of the galaxy when you … called for help. You said the range limit is 400,000 km. That cannot be your range." He is back to the science.

"No, sir. I was…modified to increase my range. By Keeper. The Ktak who stole me and also took care of me. It played no part in the accident; I guess it did play a part in my rescue, for which I am grateful. When I was alone in the dark, I reached out for the Away Team, just for the reassurance that they were there. They were not."

"We were in high planetary orbit for the night, not knowing the status of Reynos's inhabitants."

Anon says for the record, "There are no intelligent species on Reynos 3. I searched the planet. Neurally. Any connection to any intelligent species – any level of intelligence, even a dear little dog – would have let me stay calm in the dark. But I couldn't find anyone anywhere. I was clear-headed, I was. I knew where I was. I knew Janay had died." Her voice chokes and she blunders on. "I looked for a rescue team. I checked near orbit. Then I guess I just panicked. I never did that before on duty. And I screamed. I didn't mean to cause problems. I just needed someone to be with. I don't know whether it's my species or my own … problem. Like a, a pathology."

"It certainly played a part in your rescue," Spock acknowledges. "We knew you were alive, and increased the pace of our efforts. We were still hampered until the Enterprise returned with proper excavation equipment, but we were able to complete two hours early what the engineers needed us to do. It may well have saved your life."

Let me be clear. It is impossible for Solitaire Anon to be more indifferent to Mr. Spock's speculation. Not possible.

Commander Scott clears his throat. It's his turn. "There is something not in the logs that concerns me, Ensign. Mr. Ioyomah was the first person to reach you where you were pinned. He brought the gurney; he and Groome set up lights, freed your hand."

"I don't remember. I only really remember Dr. McCoy being with me. I don't know why they didn't tell me. I will find them and thank them."

"Well, lassie, something happened that alarmed Mr. Ioyomah. When he touched you, he felt powerful pain in his own hand, on the side of his head, and great, great sadness in his heart. It appeared to him that Dr. Chenoweth felt the same, and he heard cries from others of the rescue team. He kept it to himself, because, well, he doubted his sanity, to be blunt wi'cha, until he told me about it me this morning before the briefing. Did this happen? Was it due to, what did you call it?" He scrolls back in the minutes. "The neural communication?"

"Yes sir. Someone, I guess you're saying it was Ioyomah, was trying to support my head, to get it out of the muck. He touched my skin, and what I was experiencing spread to everyone there. That's from the neural communication. I couldn't make it stop while he was touching me, but he let me go, and I stopped it."

"You speak of this in the third person," Spock observes.

"Well, some of what happens seems to be done independently of what I consciously am trying to do. The Lice of Cokindt?"

Spock: "Lights."

"Whatever. They wanted desperately to get in my brain. That was always their strategy – get in the brain and control the rest of the body. Usually it was easy for them. But they had to attack my lungs to try to make me pass out, because my brain wasn't letting them in. It's hard to describe, sir." McCoy looks at her, his jaw tight.

Another science question from the chief science officer. "After you … transmitted the scream, you then communicated exclusively with Dr. McCoy, who was in orbit around Lopre 2. Was there a time delay between your transmissions to him and your receptions from him?

McCoy, confused by this question, looks first to Spock, then at Anon. She doesn't look the least bit confused. Her eyes have narrowed as she considers her response to her commanding officer. "No. None. That never happened. I believe it's quantum."

Uhura leans forward, hands gripping the edge of the table. "You're a … no, I'm sorry." The expression on Anon's face has turned scary, and Uhura changes her approach. "Your neural communication acts as an ansible, a biological ansible! How?"

Anon's face smooths into indifference again; McCoy aches at her distance from him. She doesn't look at him, but answers Uhura dutifully. "I don't know. It's never been tested. Scans don't tell anything useful. Guess you'll want to measure it. Of course you will."

"Let us return to the subject at hand." Spock has learned what he needed to know for now. "Captain, Lieutenant Uhura, I believe we should add to standard scanning of communications the biometrics that recorded when Ensign Anon neurally screamed … communicated to the crew. If the Ensign can do this, if the Ktak can do this, it is possible that other species can as well. Starfleet should be informed to always check. I have no more questions for the Ensign."

"I do." Kirk is obsessed. "With your ability, why are you not in the diplomatic corps or espionage?"

"What?" Anon face betrays her horror at the echoes of Keeper's warning. "I would be a terrible diplomat, and I don't want to spy on people. I want to be a geologist. I love geology."

"It's a waste of your very special talent. Can you demonstrate this neural communication – is this telepathy? – now, or can you do it only under duress?"

Anon's nictating membrane has not receded at all since it earlier decided she was in danger. If Kirk thinks she's not under duress now, he has another think coming. Her voice shakes as cruelly as her limbs as she responds, "I can, but I won't. It's private and irrelevant."

"I need to have a more personal understanding of this than that damn scream gave me. Don't make me have to order you." The truth is in there. He's still pissed off about what happened to his ship and its crew.

Anon finally shows signs of life. "Don't make me have to disobey an order. The scream was inadvertent. If my uniform was accidentally torn and exposed three of my breasts, that would not give you the right to demand to see the fourth. You wouldn't dream of it. This is no different!" And she retreats within herself again, eyes downcast, trembling violently.

Kirk is shocked. Uhura covers her mouth to conceal her smile, and Scott wears a broad grin.

McCoy is aghast – Anon's physical condition is worse now than when she came in. Does no one else see that? As he stands to stop the interrogation, Spock speaks up, "You are correct, Ensign, if a bit colorful in your explanation.

"Well. My mistake." Kirk recovers smoothly. "Thank you for your testimony and your analysis. You are dismissed, Ensign."

"Thank you, Captain." Anon rises. Now which way is the door? Damned membrane.

"Check your messages, Ensign," Seldom is heard an encouraging word, but here is McCoy's. "Your wrappings can come off. Report to Sickbay." He sits down again, on the edge of his chair, debating whether to order the duty doctor to admit her.

"Thank you, Dr. McCoy." Still half-blinded, she staggers from the Ready Room. McCoy now has no doubts that the doctor on duty will take one look at her and retain her, but he is ill at ease nevertheless

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Anon has been dismissed, but the post-Scream briefing continues. Kirk is still not satisfied, and he turns on the already anxious McCoy.

"Your turn, Bones. You knew what was going on with Anon. Why did you not inform me or Spock?"

Not only anxious, but short on patience. "It was nobody's damn business."

"Nobody's busi...! You weren't on the bridge. The crew was reeling, looking for an attacking ship, the source of the transmission, anything at all. We had no idea what had happened, and you ..."

"I knew right away," McCoy responds coolly. "I called you; you said not now Bones. I don't hold that against you, and I didn't mind waiting, but I didn't realize at the time – how could I? – that the whole bridge heard that scream."

"Not just the bridge," Scott reminds him. "I was on the planet below. Thought the universe was coming to an end."

"You should have told me long before that incident." Kirk is not conceding a millimeter.

"Told you what?" McCoy's voice is rising in pitch and volume. "Confidential medical information? Even in Starfleet we have some expectation of privacy. I entered her neurological feature, because that's what it is, in her medical records. Shortly after I found out. I informed my med team, because they needed to know. But I was under no obligation to tell anyone outside of Sickbay. I, she, neither of us really even knew the extent of it. You heard her say almost those very words."

"Shortly after you found out?" Kirk prods McCoy mercilessly. "How did you find out?"

McCoy hesitates a long time. "We were in the lounge, corner booth, talking, during her break.

She kissed me. I found out." Uhura slowly smiles. Spock raises an eyebrow.

"Go on." Kirk is clearly enjoying McCoy's discomfort.

"She was, she was in my head. And I was in her head. It was shocking. Oh hell, it was great, who am I kidding, great until it wasn't, and then it was horrible. She told me about her … 'condition.' And that whatever we experienced had been communicated somehow to the whole damn lounge. And beyond. A bunch of couples left in a hurry."

Uhura nods her head. "I heard about that. A couple of my friends were there and said all of a sudden there was a rush of, well, lust. Passion." McCoy shifts uncomfortably.

Scott adds, "One of my engineers was there. It was the only thing anybody talked about the rest of the afternoon, and you'd best believe all of them took dinner in the lounge instead of the mess, hoping it would happen again."

McCoy is staring at a very interesting spot on the wall. "She went back to work; I made a notation in her records."

"A kiss. Records. And that was the end of it?"

"Well, no. She was embarrassed at what had happened. I was ... We didn't kiss again, but we did experiment with private communication over the next, uh, little while." McCoy has never been a kiss-and-tell kind of guy, and finally snaps. "Damn it, Jim, this would sound a lot better over a beer than in a senior officers' briefing! Hell, not even then! This is personal!"

"Were you in 'private communication' when the mine entrance collapsed?" Spock has not forgotten this is actually supposed to be a briefing about the mission to Reynos 3.

McCoy mentally thanks him and says, "Yeah. That's why I thought she was dead. It was worse than the scream."

"I doubt that," Scott ventures, pouring gasoline on the fire.

"Dammit, Scotty, you have no idea!" McCoy is a towering inferno now.

Spock stays on message. "Doctor, you said you knew right away. That it was she who screamed. She stopped relatively quickly. Did you resume private communication?"

McCoy collects himself. "Yes again. That's why I disobeyed orders to sleep. Until the rescue team arrived, I was all she had."

"Very sweet." Kirk offers. "But your primary duty is the safety and well-being of the whole crew. Not just your girlfriend."

"You want to fire me? Court martial me?" McCoy has stood all he can stand and can't stands no more. "Because I didn't breach her confidentiality? The ship wasn't endangered; the rest of the crew was just fine. I had a professional obligation to preserve her privacy. If I knew that she was partial to blue-skinned, pointy-tailed females, like some people I know, I would have kept that secret too, for the same reason. I don't know what's gotten into you, Jim. This adds nothing to the briefing. And I have nothing further to say." McCoy stands.

Spock speaks up. "Doctor. Captain. The loss of Ensign Andersen and the injuries to Ensign Anon are unrelated to the subject of Anon's telepathy. I was the Away Team leader. It was my responsibility to keep the team safe. Ensign Andersen certainly should not have hung her tool pack on the supports. It was a breach of protocol, as she and Anon had already determined the instability of the tree roots as supports. But ..."

"You cannot be blaming Janay for her own death!"

"No, I am not, Doctor. The poor design of the tool kit packs led to the failure of safety protocols. Their field logs made that clear. In fact, Andersen's consistent reports for two years made that clear. I have submitted a request to Starfleet that the difficulties Anon and Andersen experienced be incorporated into a new and/or secondary pack that does not require removal of the hard hat and juggling of the kit in order to reach the tools they need. It was a matter of life and death, and the design failed."

"I assume the packs were developed by men for men," Uhura ventures.

"Likely," Spock agrees. "Andersen had complained about the pack, both formally and informally, on her previous Away Team experiences. All of them. The first time she did, I experimented with the pack myself, and discussed the issue with her geo team leader at the time. Neither of us had any difficulty using the pack as it had been designed. After that, Andersen's complaints became increasingly … impertinent."

Uhura snorts. "Knowing Janay, I can imagine. So you got distracted by all the G-Ds and Effings and ignored them. Spock, what world do you occupy? The field science women are Amazons. Check the PT sign-ins. All the women – all of them – work out hours beyond requirements, even on their so-called rest days. Their attitude is that they can't do anything about mass, gravity, or testosterone, but the rest depends on their hard work. Janay was tall for a woman, as big and strong as you're going to find." Uhura suddenly finds herself welling up again and battles through it. "If she couldn't manage the pack, no female geologist could. It was designed for shoulders only, right? Not hips and legs? That's typical."

"I admit, that is true."

Uhura softens her approach. "I know you will always carry this loss with you, Spock. I don't mean to imply you were callous."

"I was tragically wrong to take Andersen's concerns less seriously than they deserved," Spock affirms, with barely detectable emotion in his voice. "There is need of a redesign or, preferably, several design alternatives. I have informed Starfleet's Ergonomics Department. That is the basis of my request. My strongly worded request."

"A demand, Mr. Spock?" Kirk is unused to this language from his First Officer.

"Yes, Captain. It is unforgivable to lose a team member. I should have done that two years ago. My report on the event is concluded. I do have a side question for Dr. McCoy."

"What is it, Spock?" McCoy growls.

"When Anon's eyes clouded over …"

"Not cloudiness. Nictating membrane. Partially transparent. Engages when stressed."

"You mean a third eyelid?" Scott is fascinated. "Like camels?"

"Sure. Are we done?" McCoy definitely is done.

"Unless someone else has something to add," Kirk declares, "the briefing is closed."

McCoy, still standing, spins on his heels and leaves. A long, heavy silence ensues.

"Let us pray we never have to go through anything like this again," Uhura murmurs.

"Agreed. And I believe, Captain, that further study of Ensign Anon's effect on the Enterprise crew is required." Spock is on to the next project.

"Absolutely." Kirk is, unexpectedly to Spock, enthusiastic.

Scott understands immediately. "What, you mean the sexy times? Well, more like getting everyone feeling randy, wouldn't you say."

"That is not what I would say." An affronted Spock is most amusing indeed. "But yes, that is my area of concern."

"Fascinating, Mr. Spock." Kirk is pushing it. "As I said, I absolutely agree. But when did you become interested in randy thoughts?"

"From Mr. Scott's description of the lounge, and of the engineering department at least for the duration of that day, it seemed quite disruptive."

"There are a lot worse things to think about than sex!" Uhura protests.

"Here, here." Kirk eggs both of them on. This is a welcome outlet after the ordeal of the briefing.

"I mean, there is no better thing to think about than sex, really. Thinking about making love makes people happy." Uhura's argument is inarguably inarguable.

"Not as happy as the actual making of it," Kirk clarifies, "but your point is well taken, Lieutenant."

"Grrr. Are we off the record, Captain Kirk?"

"We were off the record as soon as the briefing was closed, Lieutenant Uhura."

Uhura follows Andersen's ancient advice to Anon, which she had also offered to Uhura, to say what needs to be said, and chance the consequences. "Well then, I just have to say, Captain, no offense intended ..."

"None taken. Yet."

"I don't believe any of this so-called concern has a thing to do with the safety of the ship and crew. You are just jealous."

"Of Bones? You must be joking." Kirk is laying it on thick, a diversionary tactic since she is hitting him where he lives. "I like him, I admire him, we're good friends, but I've never been jealous of him."

Too late he realizes he is out of his element, and Uhura zaps him. "Not before, maybe, but now? Leonard McCoy, good ol' I'm-just-a-country-doctor McCoy, is making love to a telepath, with _all_ that implies, and you can't stand it. It has been making you crazy insane jealous ever since you figured it out. Just admit it and move on like a grown-up. If possible. No offense."

Uhura rises and stalks out, head held high. Kirk looks at his other senior officers and shrugs. None of them even attempts to meet his eyes.


	22. Chapter 22

**Section 7: Postlude**

 **Chapter 7b: One Foot (in Front of the Other)**

McCoy prowls the corridor, trying to corral his thoughts. Suddenly he stops. "Son of a bitch."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

McCoy enters Sickbay, seeking Anon. Chenoweth, on duty, is speaking into the console; when she spots him she breaks off her message.

"How did the unwrapping go? Is she still here?" McCoy sounds harsher than he intends.

"She? You mean Anon?" Chenoweth knows exactly whom he means, but can't resist. She rolls her eyes when he frowns at her, then continues, "The unwrapping was fine. Her arm and skull tested out healed and healthy, although still a little tender. Rollins's growth medium work was first rate. You should commend him, you know. How are you doing? That must have been a tough one."

"It was the worst, but it's done now. Thanks, Chenoweth, for your work and your concern. I will put in a commendation for Rollins. One more thing to do, then I'm signing out for the day.

Chenoweth corrects him. "Two more things." McCoy cocks his head.

"McCoy, listen. I released Anon against my better judgment. One of the techs performed the scan yesterday that confirmed her arm was healed, but I last saw her eleven days ago, Rolllins checked her five days ago, and she seemed relatively fine. She looks terrible now, and she was doing her best to hide a tremor, but I could clearly see it. She insisted she was fine, that she was just stressed because of the briefing."

McCoy shook his head. "If she used 'could,' 'should,' or 'might' in her answer, she was avoiding the question. I'm going to put that to her med file I swear to God."

Chenoweth nodded. "Close enough. She said, 'probably.' Add that to your list. Anyway, she said she was going to PT. I told her first to see the therapist in charge for a recovery program for her hand, and second, not to overdo. I figured she would ignore both recommendations, and was about to send PT a medical order for her when one of the engineers came in to tattle on her. Simbollah, a friend – she's beside herself over what's been going on. I started to send a different order to PT to get Anon back to Sickbay pronto when you arrived. I'll defer to your judgment. Simbollah is waiting in your office."

"The ensign was at the briefing. I know how she looked. I just didn't know why. I guess I'll find out. Thank you, Chenoweth." McCoy enters the office and closes the door.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

McCoy has gone to the gym, which as usual is swarming with crew. He checks the sign-in roster and scrolls back slowly to the date of Anon's surgery, with a deepening frown. Simbollah had it exactly right. Night after night of long, unsupervised workouts off-hours, many of them overlapping Anon's normal sleep period – had she fallen asleep in the gym or the locker room, or not at all? The equipment in use was all for cardio/pulmonary work, so she didn't disobey her medical orders by stressing her arm or risking her head, but still. Grueling, punishing, and unauthorized. And pointless. He has already decided to review the reporting parameters for PT – too much of a time gap between Sickbay recommendations and PT activity reports. But that's a different issue.

Having finished scanning the entries, McCoy looks for her and heads for the climbing wall but keeps his distance. He observes as Anon, in full gear, repeatedly punches the new program button, paces, climbs all the way up, climbs half-way down and drops to her feet, landing heavily. She's breathing hard, unsteady on her feet. She's not wearing her O2 pack, dammit. As he watches, he sees her favoring her left hand, but she does not stop, nor even slow down.

McCoy slowly approachesthe wall, intending to wait for her to drop, but he sees her lose her hold – yes, her left hand, dammit, dammit – and fall. Her reflexes take over to the extent that she lands safely, but she rolls awkwardly trying to protect the weak hand. On her butt on the floor, she glares at the offending body part, then heaves herself back to her feet. She crouches, ready to spring and try again, but he steps in front of her before she can do so.

Anon starts, and immediately moves into diversionary mode. Is that the word "GUILTY" flashing in bright lights on her forehead? "Oh! Leonard! I mean, Doctor McCoy. I didn't see you come in. I'm … um … I'm trying to get back in shape. See, all better." She shows off the clear skin on her head with the shaved portion of her hair well on the way to growing in; she wiggles her fingers, and forms a weak fist, then slips both shaking hands behind her back. "I'm just, uh, working to get strong and …"

"And distract yourself," McCoy adds quietly.

Equally quietly. "Yah. It helps a little. Not much. Not enough."

"Dr. Chenoweth said she told you to see a therapist and not to overdo it. You've clearly ignored her on both counts. Stop. Let's go for a walk."

Busted, but not broken. "I should shower."

"Later. Let's walk. Please Ensign. And talk." McCoy powerfully wants to leave the gym so he can leave doctor mode.

"All right. I do have to get out of my gear." Anon concedes so readily that McCoy suspects that she doesn't want to be in the gym any more either; he assumes she also doesn't want to be in patient mode.

"Sure. I'll wait. If you're not out in ten minutes, I'm coming in to get you."

She tries a smile. "Volcanic eruption training. I can strip and run for my life in two-point-six seconds. You won't need to come in for me. Four-and-a-half minutes including a change of clothes. Time me." As she stumbles towards the locker room, McCoy notes both her arms shaking until she folds them tightly across her chest.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Spock enters his quarters, sits in front of his computer, and brings it to life. "Messages?" There are several, but we only have an interest in the last one.

"Incoming message, today, at 0800 hours. Application from Anon, Solitaire. Request permission to bring Lieutenant Andersen's personal effects to Andersen's family during next Earth shore leave."

Spock doesn't even have to think about it. "Computer. Respond to application. Permission granted."

"Response complete. No more messages."

"Computer. Two data requests. First request: search for all planetary surveys whose results yielded a profile similar to Reynos 3. Specifically, an area or areas impenetrable to Starfleet scans and probes. Instrument readings only. Ignore personal logs.

The neutral computer voice responds. "Data gathering in progress."

"Second request: produce an analysis of life forms unclassified due to the Prime Directive. Identification criteria: bipedal, elfin ears, higher intelligence. Eliminate gigantism and dwarfism. Eliminate feathers, scales, fur, and hairlessness. Concentrate on planets with large areas of desert, current or historic. Make special note of intelligent life forms that produce a wide variety of tonal sounds such as singing, or a tone-based language. Include assessment of telepathy characteristics, either confirmed or suspected. Produce summaries and supporting detail." After nineteen years, it's about damn time somebody tried to find Solitaire Anon's home planet, and it figures Spock would be the one to try.

The neutral computer voice repeats. "Data gathering in progress."

In his own structured way, Spock allows his mind to wander. Never before had a species with full telepathic ability been discovered, and now he is aware of two. The Ktak are highly advanced technologically with no scruples. They need to be avoided but otherwise can take care of themselves. On the other hand, Anon's primitive people are in grave danger. Even with a range limit of 400,000 km, they have a very powerful biological gift, indeed a weapon, too tempting to ignore.

He has long known that few individuals in the Federation are as committed as he to the strictures of the Prime Directive, and most will violate it at the least excuse. This is very far above the least excuse, and Anon conjecture that her people are unable to protect themselves is likely correct. The Captain's first instinct that Anon's gift is particularly well suited to espionage is exactly right. Spock has a head start in locating her people, but not much of one. He reviews his search criteria and is satisfied for now.

As for next steps, he has insufficient data to proceed. Collaboration with Dr. McCoy is essential; McCoy must have known about this "neurological feature," when he requested Spock research Anon's academic and performance records on Bolarus IX. Spock considers whether he would have looked at those records in a different light had he also known? Possibly. He will pull up those records again.

In addition, McCoy will have far more familiarity with and insight about the biometric data gathered from the effects of the Scream. Oh, and the scans were trained on the crew's biometrics; Spock has no data about Anon's biometrics as she was transmitting. Doubtless, neither does McCoy – another necessary point of discussion and collaboration.

But here is where it gets complicated. A corollary to the Prime Directive is that individuals cannot be used as test subjects unless it can be documented that they have been informed in detail about the goals and risks, that there is no coercion involved, and that bribery has not been a factor. Spock knows well that the limits to this corollary are often stretched beyond all recognition, even more than those of the Prime Directive itself. It is logical to infer something like this has happened in Anon's life. At the very least, Anon's searing reaction to Uhura's mild question regarding quantum communication was surprising on its face, but logical if she had previously been experimented upon. Spock has learned Anon is passive to a fault; Captain Kirk had to push her hard before she reacted, but Uhura had provoked first rage and then defeat, out of all proportion to Uhura's careful phrasing. Particullarly since he knows they nominally are friends. He will definitely bring all this up with Dr. McCoy.

Then there is the physiology. Does Anon's species have a special organ for neural communication? She should be scanned for this. He knows Vulcan physiology well, and there is no organ for the mind meld process, just accessing the brain in the right way. But Anon's capacity is so much greater than a Vulcan's, it is quite possible that her species has another way to transmit and receive.

Wait. What is her species? This was never a concern of his, but perhaps he could glean some information without violating the medical and psychological privacy privileges. Within moments, Spock is looking at Anon's pathetic species listing. He sees that not only has she been scanned, the scan presented in the listing is the eighth, performed less than a year ago. There is no special organ. He observes something else, and straightens up abruptly. The photo for S. Uniqueum is only about one hundred twenty days old. It is a picture of Solitaire Anon. It looks like a different person from the one who attended the briefing today. How had that escaped his notice? No wonder Dr. McCoy was so agitated. For all his years working with humans, Spock still struggles to determine emotional states, but Dr. McCoy's was undeniably strong, and now Spock understands why that was the case. He ponders a bit longer, and determines that today will not be a good day to propose a collaboration with Dr. McCoy about anything. Okay then. Good thinking, Mr. Spock! Moving right along …

Spock stands and has turned toward the door when the computer speaks again. "Incoming audio transmission from Professor Stanley."

Spock goes back to the console. "Spock here."

Stanley's clear, baritone voice is heard. "Got your message, Spock. I am so sorry to hear about Janay. She was one of my last students before I retired, and very possibly my favorite. I was lucky to have known her."

"Indeed. I believe everyone would agree with that sentiment, Professor."

"I'd be more than happy to fill in as team leader in the Geo lab until you can get a permanent replacement, even though I know that will be impossible. Janay Andersen was unique – one of a kind."

"Thank you, Professor. I shall inform Captain Kirk of your kind assistance." Spock hesitates, but he had already decided on this, so he ploughs ahead. "You may want to know that there is, um, a tradition in the Enterprise's Geo lab, a bit of whimsy to lighten the stresses of the workload as it were."

"Oh really? What would that be?" Stanley is clearly intrigued. He's sure this is a holdover from Janay's time. She was all about the whimsy.

"They have nicknames for each other, geology-related in their way. I have no objections to continuing this tradition. If you might consider a whimsical name for yourself …"

Stanley is in front of his communicator console. He is a wiry fellow, with dark hair and big, brown, puppy-dog eyes, and he sports a neatly trimmed goatee.

"Say no more, Spock. I am Iron Man."


	23. Chapter 23

**Section 7: Postlude**

 **Chapter 7c: Fix You**

McCoy didn't time her, but it was four-and-three-quarter minutes. The extra fifteen seconds was Anon contemplating the shower despite McCoy's expressed wishes. Still, she joins him quickly enough, and after she signs out they walk to a lift, side by side. Anon has her hands clasped tightly behind her back, not available, not absent.

McCoy attempts some light conversation. "I was surprised to see you climbing. I figured the first thing you would do was scoot through the cave, the creepy-crawly. You told me your size was an advantage for that, and a disadvantage on the wall. You want to get back to winning those timed contests, right?"

Anon is slow to reply. "I did try the creepy-crawly. No good. Maybe tomorrow." Uh-oh, there's one of those key words. McCoy doubles back.

"What happened when you tried? Tell me." He hears himself. Too anxious. Too agitated. He tries a little tenderness. "Soli, please."

She won't look at him, but does answer forthrightly. "I couldn't do it. I was scared. I kept seeing… It used to be so much fun, but I was terrified. I couldn't make myself go in. Maybe tomorrow."

McCoy, after a moment's indecision, puts his left arm around her shoulder. To his relief, and to be honest, to his pleasure, she reaches up her gloved left hand, intertwining their fingers, and puts her other arm around his waist.

She's still trembling. Since that remarkable mourning circle, it's the first time they've been physically close to each other. Simbollah's visit to Sickbay has given him a clue why she had shut herself away, but he has no confidence he will be able to break through her defenses. On the one hand he loves her elusive qualities. On the other, well, he has already had one psychotic break; he'd prefer to avoid another, thank you very much.

They enter the lift, and McCoy directs it. "Shuttle Bay."

Anon pulls back forcefully, and confronts him. "Shuttle Bay? No. No! Leonard, what are you doing?"

McCoy expected this reaction and is ready. "It's not what you think, dear heart. Listen to me. We were wrong. When we kissed, most people couldn't sense us. Only the lounge, maybe the decks above and below. That's all. So if we go to the farthest reaches of the ship, we should have all the privacy – physical and neural privacy – we need, for anything. So, Shuttle Bay."

"But Janay told me …"

"I pulled rank. I've reserved the whole Bay. No one but us. Whatever you want to do – talk, hug, kiss, comfort each other, even make love if you're ready – whatever you want to do, whatever you need to do, we have it all to ourselves. I'm sure we will be completely alone."

As he speaks, light dawns on Marblehead. "Aw, Leonard, I know you're right. You're right. I should have realized. Janay had no idea what happened when we kissed, not till I told her. I was so humiliated that I just assumed everyone knew."

The lift stops. The door opens. Shuttle Bay is just down the corridor.

"Get in my head? Please?" McCoy throws his head back and closes his eyes briefly while she does. Unexpectedly, she whimpers, and he feels a jolt of pain, too brief to tell whether it's physical or emotional. McCoy looks at her warily, then smiles at her with more confidence than he feels. "Much better, dear heart. Let's go for that walk." They exit the lift, and walk to the end of the corridor, hand-in-hand this time, though not speaking. They log in, the doors open, and they enter the cavernous bay. "Pick one."

"The nearest. This one."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

In the shuttle Anon paces near the door, alternating between crossing her arms and flapping her hands. McCoy flips two seats into conjoined benches, folding the others out of the way. He turns and looks at her. An unbroke horse about to bolt.

"Soli." He has to be careful. He so wants to be careful. He goes to her, bends down, takes her beloved face in his hands, and kisses her forehead. No visitors. No squatters. Okay. Still gloved, she tentatively puts her arms around him, and they kiss each other. He remains careful; she's still tentative.

Less passionate than exploratory, they maintain skin-to-skin contact. Linked, they relive experiences, both the wonderful and the horrible: the power of their first kiss, followed by the interlopers whom they remember but this time are able to ignore; McCoy's briefing of his Sickbay team and Anon's rush of gratitude; their mutual excitement anticipating her first Away Team assignment.

Then the visions come faster and unbidden, and dark: Janay's death spurs Anon to shrink away from him, but he slips his hands around her and holds her fiercely; McCoy's psychotic break after Anon's blackout causes him to pull away in shame, but she clings tighter to him. McCoy feels the surge of horror when Anon realizes she is alone in the dark. They survive the scream; they reunite; they lift each other up and then plunge into the depths.

The visions repeat, randomly, the death, the break, the scream, their reunion, again and again. Finally at a relatively calm moment they pull back, unwilling to let go of each other entirely, but careful not be in skin-to-skin contact either. McCoy had been hoping for release, but if anything he is wound even tighter than before. Anon presses her head into McCoy's chest and inhales his scent.

McCoy notably does not kiss her forehead again. He tries to talk. "As promised. No uninvited guests."

To quote his grandmother, "Goodness gracious, sakes alive!" What would he have done if he'd been wrong about that? No matter – he was right. They are alone together.

"I feel better. How can that be? I've been so sad – I'm still so sad, but … better."

McCoy considers but refrains from bestowing another kiss on her forehead. "Sorrows shared are diminished. Joys shared are magnified. Stay with me, Soli."

"I want to stay with you, Leonard. After my surgery, I tried to find you again, but I couldn't. I was afraid … I was sure I had hurt you when we were together for so long. I thought you needed to recover. And then, I didn't see you again until today. At the briefing. And then not after until you came to me. Thank you for coming to me."

McCoy gently eases Anon onto the near bench, and sits next to her, his arm around her. He's no expert, but their experience in the lounge, where they transmitted and received thoughts that were undeniably in the present – this was nothing like that. He's still being careful to the best of his ability.

"Soli, what the! …" Careful, McCoy, be careful! For god's sake, back off! "Soli, what happened just now? I thought we were just going to be in each other's head, thinking loving thoughts. Like with our first kiss that was so rudely interrupted." He steals a look at her; she is unsmiling, no, worse. She is bleak, eyes squeezed closed, and still trembling cruelly. When she takes a series of deep breaths, he knows she is on the crumbling edge of control, and he pleads, "Talk to me, Soli. Here we are, just the two of us. What has been going on with you? You can tell me."

Silently, Anon leans hard against him, then takes his hand in hers, carefully kissing his fingers, one by one. She finishes, and presses her face against his open palm. McCoy waits, watching her. He jumps as he sees his hand as a bloody stump, pressed against the face of the child Anon. He hears clicking sounds, alternated with wordless songs, from the naked child, strangely soothing. He returns to himself, once again sees and feels his hand against the face of his beloved, and reflexively wraps his other arm around her. He can't hold back. He kisses her cheek, and just for a moment feels the joy of connection, then her desolation.

"I don't know what to do, Leonard. Ever since Janay went away, so much has been coming into my head that I used to tamp down. Here I am thinking about my cage mates who've been dead for years. What they went through ruined them. My whole life, I've been able to get past the bad things. For a long time I thought I was okay, but geezum, now I can't stop the worst of my life from jumping out at me. It's constant. I'm so scared I'm ruined, too."

"I don't believe you're ruined. Damaged, sure. We all are. I was with you in that cage just now. You were a small child comforting a mutilated man-beast. No one could come out of that without damage."

"I'm so, so sorry you saw that. I wish I could block my thoughts when we touch."

"I'm glad you can't. I remember when you wanted to sing for Kevintek, even though you tried to laugh it off. I think you said it was silly. But it was important to you, and now I know why."

"A lot of times, it seemed to help. I don't know. Maybe it just helped me."

"You were who you are. I'm privileged to meet that little girl."

Anon shakes her head. "That thing you just saw. That happened before the operation. When I could still touch people and not make them nuts."

McCoy strokes her face gently; again he receives the mix of love and pain. "We're touching right now and I don't think you're making me nuts, but I still can't read you, Soli. It's a jumble. A minute ago, you said you felt better. Was that true or did you say that just for my sake?"

"It was true. It is true. But those thoughts we shared…" She shudders. "I'm so sorry. I can't make it stop. I'm sorry. Your touching me did help. Yes, you helped a lot. I want more, though. I need more. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

Anon has always talked around what made her uncomfortable. McCoy is accustomed to that aspect of her personality, and can be patient with her, but she has entered the realm of discontinuity, and it distresses him. "Soli, whatever you need, I'm here for you. Just talk to me."

Anon, shyly, awkwardly, lets go of him and fumbles with her gloves, peeling them back to expose her hands. McCoy watches intently. There is nothing feminine about them, calloused and scarred, but she seems unconcerned about that. "I have to touch you. With my own hands. I've wanted to feel your skin and your hair and your … everything for so long. Now I really need to. I need to. Please."

She reaches up high as she can to the top of his head, touches his shaggy hair, smiles and closes her eyes. Her fingers caress him, following the lines of his head, his ears, his cheeks. She doesn't see McCoy's reaction, and realizes too late that something is wrong: he is stiffening, arching away from her, and abruptly swings his arms up to bat hers away.

Anon yanks herself out of his head. McCoy, clearly in great distress, is doubled over, clutching himself, retching. Blinking her eyes rapidly, Anon careers across the shuttle until she collides with the far wall. She turns to face him, hiding her hands behind her back.

Finally, McCoy sputters, "Whoa, Nellie! Now what? Soli, I didn't just feel you, I was you. Don't do that!"

Anon, stunned, stares at him. "And I was you. It was wonderful. I loved it. Was it so terrible to be me?"

McCoy can't stop himself. "Yes! Dammit, not again! What's wrong with you! You could have warned me. Couldn't you? You should have at least asked me, if you knew it would be like that. Why did that happen?" He realizes he's haranguing her, and forces himself to bite his tongue. Literally. It bleeds.

Anon's eyes are clear for once – McCoy wonders why – but her hands remain behind her back. "I knew. It always happened with Keeper. My hands have always been the strongest physical link. I've communicated sights, sounds, tastes, and whatever before. I thought you were used to it. I thought, I thought you loved it. What's the difference?"

"It's completely different!" McCoy barks. "You took over my brain, my self, who I am. It's not at all the same as sharing experiences. How could you possibly love it? Once I got used to sharing, to being together, yes, yes, that was great, but this? Are you out of your ever-lovin' mind?"

"What?"

"Are you out of your mind?" McCoy repeats, teeth gritted.

"I got that. What was the adjective?"

"What?"

"The adjective for 'mind.' I never heard it before. Do you think I don't love you forever?"

McCoy's head is spinning. What kind of question is this? "You mean 'ever-lovin?' It doesn't mean anything. Like when you say 'geezum.' It's – I don't know, Soli. I'm a doctor not a linguist! All I know is I want to share your experiences, not become who you are."

"It's all just neurons, Leonard. Vision, taste, personality, it's exactly the same, neurons firing. When I was you, briefly, too briefly, I was racked with guilt, and I was full of anger and bitterness. But I …"

"It sounds awful. I sound awful."

Anon points to the door. "Oh, Leonard, if you were awful, I wouldn't be here. I was also full of deep compassion and caring and so much love, when I was you. How I love you. And … and ... it was wonderful, even the painful parts. " She pulls the glove over her left hand, but is too spasmodic to manage the other glove and hides her hand behind her back again. "Not so for you, huh."

"Not so for me." McCoy watches her covering up with relief. "I was alone in the galaxy. I was abandoned. I deserved it, no reason ever to be born. I was …" He suddenly realizes what he is saying.

"There's the way out." Anon flips her head in its direction.

Talk about racked with guilt. "Don't do that."

"Don't do this, don't do that. Leonard, I get it. You learned nothing about me just now that I hadn't already told you. I hoped there was more to me than my stupid issues, but I see I was wrong; I am only my issues. You saved my life, and I'm grateful. I love you and always will. But you need to find a woman you can be with on your terms. It's okay, really."

McCoy looks at the door but doesn't seriously consider it, and he looks back at this tough and fragile woman who has turned his life around and upside down.

"No, it's not okay. Really. Soli, it's not right to give up every time something gets complicated or difficult. It's not fair."

Anon actually turns huffy, yes huffy. "I never give up. I always keep plugging. You should know that, even without being me."

McCoy actually snorts, yes, snorts. "You give up on me, on us, lickety-split! You know what? I did learn plenty about you when I was you. I was loving and eager and devoted, more loyal than a hound dog. I never let anything get me down for long. And I was horny... oh. Oh damn, you want me bad. I got that, too. Very nice."

Anon lowers her (still clear) eyes but doesn't otherwise respond. Is it shy awkwardness or awkward shyness? Or perhaps silent fury. McCoy scrounges about for a way to lower the tension and has an idea. "Let's try to get comfortable. We can sprawl on the floor and relax and talk and fix this."

"No, sitting on the floor kills my hips. Let's sit together on the bench." Anon's eyes widen as she recognizes each is making the other's case for comfort, and she bursts out laughing. A moment later, McCoy has the same realization. Peace has broken out in Shuttle Bay.

The compromise is they sprawl on the floor, with the bench above them, very appealing, calling to them. How do they get there?

McCoy ponders Anon's hands. She notices the direction of his gaze and sighs. "Is it so hard to be me? I don't think I can stand to be so close and not touch you. I mean with my bare hands. I have to. I don't know why."

McCoy looks at her hopeful face, and back at her left hand, which, since it is covered, he feels safe to take in his own, and does. "Is it so hard to give me a little warning? There's neurons and then, there's neurons. This little ol' brain of mine is not like yours. Who knows whether I can do what you need me to do. You're going to hate this, but we should scan your hands to examine the neurology that makes the connection so powerful. Not now, obviously."

Anon looks at their clasped hands, and back at his apprehensive face. "No. Another useless scan to go in my ever-lovin' listing next to the eighth brain scan? No."

Of course she said no. And what ever-lovin' listing is she talking about? McCoy doesn't care, not now, obviously. At some point he'll have to tell her what he learned about her brain from those damned scans. Obviously, not now. He kisses her gloved hand, then pulls her close enough to kiss her on the lips. That's more like it. In each other's head, sharing joy to be magnified, and sorrow to be diminished. As he senses another intrusion of grief, he separates from her, noticing that she pulls back completely, placing her hands in her lap.

"So," she says. She's waiting for him. Why? Damn, the last thing he said to her, he was in doctor mode. Major buzz kill. Is he or is he not going to try again? He stalls for time, and in so doing the situation brings to mind his grandmother, her knitting, and a mischievous cat.

"This is such a, a tangled-up ball of confusion."

Anon has no experience of grandmothers, nor knitting, nor cats, but she knows her Motown. "Great song," she smiles. "I'll play it for you sometime."

Reminiscent of their time in the HBC. That's progress. He smiles back. "I'd love to hear it sometime. Soli, you never ask anything of me. Damn, never. I'm happy to try again, I truly mean it, if that's what you need, but dear heart, is there anything else I should be prepared for?"

She shakes her head no, but she whispers, "Maybe."

"Tell me, darlin'." McCoy steels himself, and then finds he doesn't need steel. He was her, and he knows her, and he fears nothing from her. "Tell me, my love."

Anon scrambles to her feet, paces across the shuttle and back, wringing her hands, not meeting his eyes. "Remember when you asked if I had lost my mind?"

"How could I forget? You …" McCoy kicks himself. She didn't have the slightest interest in the etymology of ever-lovin'. "You changed the subject so you wouldn't have to answer the question. Which was only rhetorical by the way. And I fell for it. Okay, what did you not want to talk about?"

Now she meets his eyes, though she stays on the far side of the shuttle. "I do think I've lost my mind, Leonard. I'm crazy. Not just … Janay's death is as fresh to me as if it were this very moment. Dying, dying with her, oh Leonard – it's with me over and over, constantly. It affects everything. I can't work. I can't keep anything down. I try but I can't. I'm don't sleep. I shake ..."

She looks at the hand she was unable to cover, sinks back to the floor. "You picked up on it when I touched you with my bare hands, and it overwhelmed everything else. I'm desperate to do this, Leonard. I have to. If I knew why I would tell you. But I need this so much that I didn't put you first. What if I injure you? I'm afraid for you. I'm so sorry for everything I've put you through already. I can't be sure you'll be safe if we do this. It's up to you."

McCoy lurches to his feet, and settles on the bench. Enough is enough of the floor. "We have a relationship, Soli. It isn't up to me; it's up to us. Even if you're asking for me to act as your doctor, we still have to be partners in figuring out what's going on and what to do about it. And I don't want to act as your doctor." He smiles, barely. "I'm the Boyfriend, remember?"

Anon bursts into laughter that quickly turns to sobs. In an instant McCoy is kneeling, his arms around her, kicking himself once again. "I do remember," she gasps between the sobs. (Her eyes are still clear. McCoy now knows for certain her nictating membranes aren't working; he can see them fibrillating, and he is suddenly panicked that her cardiac system could be next.) "She was so funny about that; she wouldn't say your name, but she was so happy for me. I want this to work for us, Leonard. And definitely not as doctor and patient."

"Whew. You sound pretty clearheaded for a crazy person. Give yourself some credit!" He strokes her face, and feels the thrill of connection. If this does kill him, what a way to go. "Come, dear heart, let's play with our new toy: your bare hands. I'll become you, you'll become me, and we'll learn the best and worst parts of ourselves and make sense of them somehow. I surely hope that doesn't sound as loony to you as it does to me." They rise and face each other; Anon slides her hand under his sleeve and grasps his left forearm with her right hand; he firmly grasps her right forearm with his left hand.

No fear. No fear. McCoy chants to himself as he incorporates the neurological firings that are Anon. He makes a conscious effort to locate and become her sweet self, as a defense mechanism for the grief he already knows is there, and easily finds her.

How bizarre to long for himself; curious about the details, he finds none. First lesson: this is not about sharing experiences, as he had come to expect; rather he is absorbing her reactions to her life experiences.

That no-holds-barred loyalty to himself he had learned about: he feels just as fiercely devoted to other people as well. Which other people? He forces himself to focus: Janay Andersen is one, as is Keeper. Even unto death; now that's loyalty. Who else? That teacher she mentioned – Rixx, yes; a group of seven, including a baby, whom he has never seen before; Spock and Chenoweth; Simbollah and a few other red shirts: with concentration he sees their faces and knows them and knows he will always have their backs. Not a long list.

He feels more confident and opens himself up willingly. Who do I love? Janay and Keeper again; Simbollah and those red shirts, too. He loves them all. Not Teacher Rixx, can't find his face anywhere – interesting. Loving someone who doesn't love you back ended with Keeper, apparently. Other faces materialize: Those six unknown adults, and the baby, definitely human and a variety of races – suddenly he knows they are Janay's family, and he loves them wholly. Pix of people – this is the extended McCoy family he showed her in the lounge. She loves them, but has never met them. Ah, she loves whom he loves. Another reason he loves her, as if he needed more.

And who's that handsome fellow? Can he be that good looking? Of course not; it's ridiculous, but that's what love does to you. Handsome and virile and witty and kind and brilliant and fascinating and … McCoy is finding this self-adoration just too weird, and forces himself to dig deeper.

He was wrong about her taking over. He still is himself, but he is her self as well, exactly who she is. Her loving, loyal self. Where's the dark side that … POW! There it is. Damn.

This is the Soli he was the first time her hands touched his face. Alone in the dark, not the dark of the lamp-less mine, but the dark of an upended life. Heart-breaking and stomach-churning, the loss of love and place. He understands this is not just about Janay, but about repeated losses and the unmitigated terror of more. The loss of Janay was what finally broke him. That broke her. Keep it together, McCoy.

Worse than that. My last words to her, I screamed at her. I screamed at her. Her last words to me, she apologized. She apologized. I'm a monster. I'm Ktak. Loathsome. Selfish.

More losses are inevitable, and will kill her. Destroy him. I deserve it. No. No, it's not true. Love matters. All those people she loves, people who are as devoted to him as she is to them. He's losing who he is now, and focuses on retaining a thread of attachment to himself. Not working. Please don't leave me. I love you. His screams are silent and deafening, but he hears a voice from far away. I'm here. I'm with you, love. I'll always love you. Her voice. Soothing him and bringing him back to life. Don't leave me. I'm here with you. I'll always be with you. Shh, shh, shh, I can forgive you anything. His voice. Soothing her and bringing her back to life.


	24. Chapter 24 (Revised)

**Section 7: Postlude**

 **Chapter 7c: One Hand, One Heart**

McCoy jolts into the here and now as himself; his are eyes closed but he is hardly blind. All his senses are on fire. He and Anon are no longer clasping hands; he understands that is why he is he not she, but her arms are around him, and his head is buried in her chest. He listens to his breathing, feels his pulse. He can hear Anon's heartbeat and sense its gentle throbbing.

He has no awareness of how much time has passed. It could be an instant or hours – enigmatic dream time. They are lying on the bench, though he can't say when or how they went from standing to prone. She kisses the top of his head repeatedly, usually his métier – a reversal he knows she knows he is enjoying. As he inhales the smell of her, he impulsively pulls the fabric of her shirt into his mouth. Not only can he taste her sweat, the taste enhances her scent. This is part of what it means to be Soli, he thinks. It should be a sensory overload for him but instead he has an insatiable craving for even more. But he is more and more himself now, so he reluctantly stops chewing her shirt and kisses the damp spot. As she moves herself against him in response, he feels a rush of desire, hers as well as his.

Connected as they are, McCoy finds himself unable to marshal any of his own thoughts. Every time she kisses him, he loses track of whatever else may have been important just a moment ago. Nothing matters but the touch of her lips.

McCoy dares to open his eyes. He tips his head and sees that Anon's eyes are open as well. Words in his head. Focus, McCoy, focus.

" _What did you do, Leonard? What did you do?"_ She is calling to him, and he must answer.

" _I was you. So I did nothing. It was only you, dear heart."_

Anon kisses him again on his head, and now he adjusts his position so they can kiss each other properly. All they see is how they feel right now, no ghosts from the past, and it's all good. He feels the slow burn of the ache in her belly; she feels the sharp pang in his groin. As powerful as those sensations are, Anon is talking, damn, about what they just experienced, and she says, discernibly now, "You did something, Leonard. I'm not shaking. I'm not twisted up inside. My heart isn't racing."

McCoy leisurely reaches up to the hollow of her throat and runs his hand down the length of her body, enjoying a perfect moment. Sure enough, the tremor is gone. "Mm," he murmurs. "You're right. That's wonderful, just wonderful." He hears her in his head. " _Please do that again, my love_." And he runs his hand back up her body, sliding under her shirt, until he hits a rib. Then McCoy remembers his more immediate concern, the thought that was so important, and quashes his libido. "Soli, you're starving to death. Literally. I felt it. When did you last eat something solid?"

He rolls off the bench. Rummaging through the shuttle's stores, he produces two nutrition cakes that he brings back to her. She takes two deep breaths before she finally answers, "Maybe a few days."

He shakes his head as he tears open a package. "Not good enough, Ensign. How many days?" He hands her the cake, and she grabs it, a ravenous creature.

Anon breaks off pieces and stuffs them in her mouth, mumbling around her chewing and swallowing, "Simbollah went to see you. She told me she would. I'm glad she did. I'm so lucky she loves me. I haven't slept since the surgery. Everything has been all wrong. Six."

Twenty days without sleep. Six days since food. Inconceivable. McCoy is done haranguing her, done forever he suddenly realizes, but before he can say another word, she snatches the second pack, rips it open with her teeth, and devours that cake as well. He watches with amazement; the feeble wraith he walked in with is gone. He remarks, "You love her, too. And now, so do I." Anon nods in understanding. He continues, "Just those two cakes for now, dear heart. They're the equivalent of two meals. Let your system adjust to food again – don't want you to toss them right back."

When she has finished every crumb, shaking them from the torn packs and picking them off her clothes, Anon hops off the bench and goes to the sink to drink from the faucet, then ducks her head under the flowing water. She rubs her face and hair vigorously and looks around, taking in the spare accommodations of the shuttle. She sees McCoy watching her, and explains, "I was having trouble with my peripheral vision earlier. This is more like what I remember from training."

Tunnel vision. McCoy now knows she would never have come for help on her own, but he takes a page from Anon's book and changes the subject. "It's not what anyone would call a romantic setting."

She smiles and replies cryptically, "The Mermaid Café," then comes straightaway back to him. McCoy takes her in, bows his head, buries his face in her damp hair, trying to make sense of what he has just gone through. She had told him she was desperate to touch him with her hands. Where had that come from? A previous experience? Not unless she was so young it was pre-memory. She had said she didn't know why. But instinct? High-level intelligences don't do instinct, right? The damnable mystery of her species hangs over them once more. System after system shutting down. It could have killed her.

He lifts his eyes to the ceiling seeking answers to what he consciously experienced and what seems to have happened below that level. For all his bravado, he had been scared going in, but what comes to mind in the aftermath is the first time she talked about herself, how being neurally connected made her feel "safe." At the time it was such a foreign concept, both because of the newness of the relationship and because of the initial painful side effects, that he had assumed she meant good or happy. But safe is exactly the right word. He feels safe connected to her.

Anon slips his grasp and looks up at him. "There you go."

Abruptly McCoy is empty. "Soli, wait, no. Why did you get out of my head? What's wrong?"

She chews on her lower lip before she responds. "You keep thinking private thoughts, and I don't want to intrude on you. That would be … I don't spy, Leonard, you know that. Think whatever you need to think about, and so will I, and let's talk. Out loud so you are free from me."

All right then. McCoy's first question is both obvious and incomprehensible. "Is that what it's always like for you?"

Yes, incomprehensible. Anon responds in the obvious way. "What do you mean?"

McCoy knows what he means, but is not sure what to say. He blunders on anyway. "Are you always bombarded like that? Sensually, I mean. Sights, sounds, smells, tastes, feelings – it felt like I had, you have the vision of a hawk, the ears of a dolphin, the nose of a dog …"

Anon interrupts. "Yah. No. Wait a minute. Let me think." He waits, and then she continues, "I never really considered this before. You don't feel the same intensity, do you?"

McCoy shakes his head. "Only when your hand grabbed mine."

Anon thinks some more. "My brain has been scanned again and again, but nobody ever cared about my eyes or ears or other organs. So they must be ordinary, and what makes me, well, what you called bombarded is the way my brain processes their inputs. It's wicked intense, yah, and …" Her eyes pucker in anguish.

"Oh, Leonard! My poor zoo mates! Until I stopped touching them entirely, they must have thought I was torturing them, too." She takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Yah, I fight being distracted by it all the time. I thought everybody had to deal with their senses crashing into them and I just stunk at it. Huh. I'm so impulsive. I try, but I do and say stuff a lot that causes problems for me. What a mess. I didn't realize."

McCoy is gob-smacked. This is his first experience with Anon's analytical process, taking an idea or observation that she would never have come up with, and running with it. She is absolutely correct – having been her, he can't imagine the sensory experience she has to manage minute by minute, day after day. He offers by way of confirmation, "Impulsive, yeah. I was still getting over being you, and I couldn't stop myself tasting you by gumming your shirt."

She relaxes a bit and smiles. "I felt that. I knew I should have taken that shower."

McCoy chuckles, "If you had, I would probably have started licking your belly. I was definitely going to taste you. If you're ticklish, that would have been the end."

She laughs, "I have never let myself be in the position of being tickled. Don't care to find out." She holds her right hand out, palm up, studies it, and looks at McCoy. "But Leonard my love, I really need to know, please. What did you do when you were me?"

McCoy has nothing. "Soli, all I remember doing was looking for your sweet self, and there I was. I mean, there you were. I was disoriented most of the time. What did you do? Just neurons you said – what did you do to them?"

Anon waxes lyrical. "I went looking for your sad self, my love. I found him, oh yes," and she stretches up to kiss him again, and they each experience the thrill again of a brief connection. "But I couldn't let me be him all by himself. I know who you are, how dear you are, how beloved you are, how so very good you are, and I stayed with you, I was your sad self, until you knew it, too. Oh, my sweet love."

Okay, clearly she has no idea either. Each of them did something to the other. Brilliant. McCoy doesn't consider this even a good start. So what else? How the hell is he supposed to stay focused on process when he can't even state clearly what the end result was? He tries another approach that may be more satisfying, even if it's no more enlightening. It's more fun to contemplate anyway. "Soli, what we did only happened because we … played with your bare hands?"

She chuckles, "I love how you put that. Yah, my hands, I mean, my hand has a much different effect from other skin-to-skin contact."

McCoy picks up on her specificity. "Your hand? Is it right-handedness only? Or left-handed if that's your dominant side?"

Anon falls silent, then finally responds, "Geezum, I walked into that one. Both hands used to have the same intensity of connection, but my left hand doesn't any more. The normal skin-to-skin is there, but the very strong link is gone. Because of the accident most likely. I don't want Dr. Chenoweth to find out. She might blame herself, and it's not her fault. She was amazing, so many hours spent with me, working on my arm. Leonard, I'm humbled by what she did, and so grateful. Please don't tell her."

Secrets.

If Anon were speaking to Andersen, the rant would already have begun, but McCoy wasn't part of this regular conflict and is done haranguing her in any event. "I won't keep this from my team. Dr. Chenoweth did brilliant work under appalling circumstances." He pauses, thinking about the harrowing field report. "Of course it isn't her fault. And Soli, please understand that her surgery worked only because Dr. Rollins had found the right combination of chems to mend your bones quickly. He's the best research doctor in Starfleet, and he was working on you. All of my team, every doctor, nurse, and technician, will welcome any new information about your physiology. Not telling them what happened will harm their work. They're outstanding, and they care about you."

Anon sits quietly, then looks at McCoy, her eyes thoughtful. "I've been wrong about so many things. Everyone who's studied my brain thinks it must make me wicked smaht, but …"

McCoy is perplexed and interrupts. "I'm sorry, what was that word? Smaht?"

Anon rolls her eyes and giggles. "When I was a First Year at Academy my roommate had this fun accent, and I picked up some of how she talked. A lot of us picked up on 'wicked,' but I also loved how she'd lose the 'R' sound sometimes. Like 'smaht' for 'smart.' It was confusing other times but still fun. Of course, it wasn't luscious like your accent."

McCoy laughs, remembering the eye-opening experiences of his own Academy days, a needed break at this moment from the strain between them. And his attention has been piqued. "What about my accent? Luscious?"

"Mm-hmm," Anon purrs. "It was the first thing I loved about you. I was lying in the HBC, couldn't breathe, trying to figure out what had happened, and then there was this voice. Deep, slow, soft. Mm."

"And here I thought it was because I was so good-looking without my glasses. Now I know how to have my way with you, honey lamb, bless your dear little heart." McCoy lays it on thick and gooey, and Anon giggles again.

McCoy carefully picks up the thread. "Go on, Soli. You don't think you're smart? You wouldn't be here if you weren't smart."

Anon shakes her head. "That's what Janay said once too. But my brain is mostly good at memorization and neural communication. The memorization hides what an idiot I can be. I always think everything has to be a secret. I didn't want to tell anybody about my arm being damaged. Geezum, I never want to tell anybody about anything. When I was you a few minutes ago, I found out how much it hurts you when I'm so closed off, and then I go and do it again immediately. I never learn. I'm sorry, Leonard."

Anon takes his hand and kisses it. "And it's not just talking. It's way past time we studied what happens with my brain."

For the second time McCoy is gob-smacked. "You're willing to submit to testing?"

"No! Certainly not!" Anon is indignant in both tone and stance.

"Okay then." His disappointment is palpable, but what did he expect? "Well. In that case…" he begins.

"I'm proposing some tests."

"Oh, that's completely different." McCoy tries to be facetious, but the look on her face is dead serious.

"I have rights, Leonard. I don't have to submit to anything. Mr. Spock is looking for my planet. I want to contribute but I won't submit to anything."

McCoy is both confused and abashed. "Soli, that was the worst choice of words I could have come up with. No, you don't have to submit, not ever. Dear heart, I'm so sorry." He observes her heavy breathing and kicks himself for going where he knew – he knew! – was forbidden territory.

Anon finally is able to respond, more or less, gasping, "Leonard, it's okay, I understand. I've been … I'm ready to …"

McCoy envelops her and murmurs, "Just breathe, Soli. It's all right. Nobody will make you do anything you don't want to do. I was you. I know your life. I know this frightens you. You can say no."

Anon's breathing calms, she presses so close he thinks she will go right through him. "I don't want to say no. I want to say yes. I'm so bad at this. I want to help Mr. Spock, but I always do things the same way that didn't work before. I want to try. You want me to try. Janay would so want me to try. The only one who wouldn't was Keeper, and I've spent most of my life doing what she would have wanted. All that ever came out doing what she wanted was secrets and so much loneliness. It's …"

McCoy shushes her, and kisses her, but all the love and affection in the world can't divert him from what she clearly said. "Soli, what do you mean, help Mr. Spock. You said he's looking for your planet? He told you that? When did you discuss this? It's a very big deal!"

Anon clings ever tighter to him; her anguish drags him in despite his best efforts to stay positive. "We didn't discuss anything, Leonard! He told us at the briefing. Didn't you hear his questions? He's going to try to find my people, he needs measurements, data, and I have to help him do it, even though he doesn't want my participation. I know he thinks if he fails I can't handle it, oh, I was such a mess at the briefing, but I can handle anything if he's looking for my home! And the Captain was so angry I endangered the ship, and he was right, and Mr. Spock knows this is the only way, and he's right."

Third time. Gob-smacked. Now McCoy recalls Spock's questions, and yes, that is exactly where he was going. How on god's green earth could Soli think she's an idiot? McCoy is done with so many things, the most important his belief that he can quash his libido for even one more instant. Soli Anon is, in her own quirky, unpredictable, improbable way, the most attractive woman he has ever known, and he will no longer hold back. He was the real idiot for even trying to. What was he thinking?

Oh, right. He was trying to balance with his role as Chief Medical Officer of the Starship Enterprise. To hell with that. He throws it off and gives himself over to his much-preferred role as the Boyfriend.

"I promise I'll be there for you, Soli. I want to be, always. I'll talk to Mr. Spock about his plans, I swear, and I'll help in any way he needs. And I am so sorry about your arm, love. I don't ever mean to sound clinical or cold. Your arm may get better over time, you know; nervous systems often take longer to heal. In the meantime, dear heart, your right hand is just fantastic."

He seeks her bare right hand, instantly connects, and roams again the mixed universe of he and she, depending on whether her hand is stroking him under or atop his clothing. He is Anon, touching him to learn all about him, and he is himself on the receiving end of her caresses. How does she know what he wants? Of course she does; she is him, attuned to his desires.

It isn't until they come up for air that he becomes aware to his chagrin that he can't say at all what her desires are; he wishes very much to reciprocate, to be a good lover not a self-centered one. Never has her lack of imagination been more of a personal handicap. McCoy is looking at a blank wall of ignorance and inexperience, and she must reassure him, " _I didn't know how complicated this all is, Leonard. I always thought it was just copulation and a lot of show. I have a lot to learn, about you and about myself._ "

He laughs, for his joy and her candor, for his love and her eagerness. " _So do I, dear heart. Yes, teach me about you. I hope we live a thousand years. Maybe I can begin to know you_."

McCoy knows he said the right thing; nevertheless, when Anon foregoes neural communication and starts speaking aloud, McCoy recognizes a looming – what is it? Shyness? Self-consciousness? – in her words. "Leonard, touching you the way you wanted was lovely, but I don't understand. What was it? The thing with your ears and the base of your spine?"

Trading places, now he is self-conscious. He hasn't been so embarrassed about sex since his mother gave him The Talk, having lost a coin flip with his Auntie Libby. But Anon is waiting for his answer. "It's just foreplay, Soli."

She laughs. Laughs? For an instant he is hurt, then, "Well, Leonard, I know it isn't for work!"

It's his turn to laugh, and he goes back to neural. " _Not for play, although it is that. Foreplay._ "

And it's her turn to be embarrassed. " _Oh._ _I've heard of that. I'll stay in here with you. I never mess up language when I'm in your head._ "

One more lovely prolonged kiss, and McCoy is full of happiness when he spooks himself. "Is this permanent, dear heart? I want it to be, but how we changed, what we did to each other, will it last?"

Anon gives his question her full consideration, less than one-half second, and replies blithely, "I have no idea, my love. You're the one who knows about neurology, not me. And I don't care if we have to do it again. I could do this every day, all day, the rest of my life."

" _Oh yes. And when we add sex to it.._."

Anon smiles. "I don't know anything about that. Will we?"

McCoy looks at her in confusion. "Did I say that out loud?"

"Kinda. You're transmitting all over the place."

In unison – why, almost as though they are in each other's heads! – they stand and pull off their shirts. While she is removing her complicated homemade bra-with-arm-coverings, she stares at his bare chest in amazement.

"Look at you! You're the most beautiful thing I ever saw!"

McCoy glances down. First he is surprised, then amused. "No. I am not. You went to the same Academy I did. All the glistening young bucks, wrestling in the nude, strutting around PT. This middle-aged body is very far from the best you ever saw."

Anon giggles like the teenager she never had a chance to be and finishes removing her bra. "Okay, yes. They were comical. The oops-I-forgot-my-towel-let-me-go-back-for-it pardon-me-excuse-me moments. Vain boys, showing off meant nothing to me. But Leonard, you are so, so beautiful."

"You are a lovely sight yourself." McCoy sees only what he sees and he loves whom he sees. Then he says, "I am a little bit disappointed, darlin'."

Obviously confused, Anon raises her eyes to his face. When she sees his amorous expression, she takes heart. "Oh, I'm sorry, love. What?"

"I was looking forward to your four breasts."

Anon was completely taken in and explodes in laughter. "I can't believe I said that! And to the Captain! It is so not me!"

Suddenly Anon hears Andersen's voice from years ago: " _Jump in or jump out, Soli_." She drops the bra, and literally leaps to him, almost knocking him over. She wraps her left leg around his right, nestles her face in his chest, smells, feels, tastes. McCoy, at first caught by surprise, lifts her chin, and they are lost in each other's eyes. She reaches out to his face and he to hers; they trace the outline of each other's lips, kiss each other's fingertips. Each has a different experience, she kissing his sensitive surgeon's fingers, he kissing her rough fingers, but they each feel both kinds of sensations, and both sensations are exquisite.

They follow the contours of their faces, eyes, ears, in synchronization. McCoy lets his hands slide across her shoulders, down her spine from her neck to the small of her back. She follows his lead, does the same. She suddenly, aggressively, continues the downward slide of her hands until she has reached his buttocks under his trousers. McCoy gasps, and now does the same to her, pulling her close. Anon's eyes widen, and she slips her right hand from under to the outside of McCoy's trousers, to lessen the connection, just a bit, while still pressing herself against him. She looks up.

"I finally get the joke!" The sly little Miss Innocent.

McCoy is quite apprehensive. "The joke?"

"Is that a tricorder in your pants or are you just happy to see me?"

McCoy grins wickedly. "I'm very, very happy to see you, darlin'."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

We shall leave them here. Your narrator has witnessed many, many mortals' couplings, and frankly finds them more ludicrous than anything else. All those slimy fluids make me shudder, figuratively speaking, as the discerning reader should know by now. If mortals crave orgasms so strongly, they merely need to stimulate the brain in the right place. As Solitaire U. Anon noted correctly, it's all just neurons firing.

She and her fellow delightful mortals followed in this story succeeded in the far more complicated business of loving each other deeply, broadly, and thoroughly, without the exchange of fluids. But there's no accounting for taste. Since these particular mortals are so very likable, indeed lovable, and a fluid exchange is what they wish, I will grant them their privacy in that pursuit.

Perhaps I should mention to the interested reader that McCoy will be quite shocked when he shares the experience of how painful it is for the female to lose her virginity. Very different from when he lost his. Very. On the other hand, they both will share each other's, shall we say, good feelings. So there's that. Double your pleasure. Still. Privacy.

Let us check in on some of the other officers' personal affairs. Why not? I'm not nearly as sensitive to their privacy, although I like them also, make no mistake.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Spock stands at attention before a door and presses its chime. Uhura's impossibly lovely voice responds, "Who is it?"

"Spock."

Uhura stands at ease as the door opens. "What is it you want, Mr. Spock?"

In blaring contrast, Spock's body is stiff but his mind is churning and restless, full of desire. "You said, back in the Ready Room, Lieutenant, that there was no better thing to think about than sex. I'd like to know how you arrived at that conclusion."

"I see." Uhura makes him sweat. And makes him sweat some more. "Logically?"

"Yes, of course."

"I don't suppose this has anything to do with your feeling a bit … randy?"

"Yes, that is possible. In fact, probable. Can you explain, if you don't mind, how you came to that conclusion?"

"Come in, and I'll be happy to discuss my analysis. I believe it is sound. And logical." Uhura, smiling sweetly, pulls Spock into her quarters.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Kirk is in his quarters, alone, sitting half-dressed on his berth. "Computer. When and where is our next shore leave?"

"In twenty-two days, on the planet Exheleion." Kirk perks up. Much sooner and a better locale than he had thought.

"Computer. Are there any telepaths on Exheleion? Female telepaths."

"There are no known telepaths per se on record, therefore none on Exheleion at this time."

Kirk frowns. Well damn. McCoy's girlfriend really is the only one? "Are there any blue-skinned pointy-tailed females on Exheleion?"

"Seventeen at this time, of three different species." Kirk leans back and smiles.

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

She sings. "Go to the Mermaid Café, have fun tonight." Then she speaks, "Janay was right."

He mumbles. "Mm, whazzat?"

She sings. "I said, ooh, you're a mean old daddy but you're out of sight."

He mumbles. "I'm a which?"

She croons. "You make me feel like a natural woman."

He murmurs. "I like the sound of that."

She says, "Again, again."

He says, "Darlin', I got this."

#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#==#

Oh for god's sake.

Pillow talk.

Well, excuse me for livin' but I'm not omniscient. Omnipotent, ubiquitous, and immortal, yes, but I didn't realize they were still having at it and returned too soon. So sue me. Let us slip away again.

There's more to Solitaire Anon's story, once she and McCoy finally either leave or get kicked out of Shuttle Bay. As a creature who has several hundred years' worth of life span, fewer than a quarter of them having passed, this is the bare beginnings of her story.

Still, this is enough of her story for now, and a good point at which to pause and reflect. Of course, she doesn't live happily ever after. It's not her nature. But she does live peaceably. That is her nature.

And as for you, dear readers, you noticed I said I'm omnipotent and now you want to know: if I am omnipotent and if I love her so much, why is Janay dead? You need to stick to your knitting. Here in the company of my fellow immortals in the Continuum, this is a major topic of debate. Even the insufferable Q, whose respect for mortals begins and ends with Jean-Luc Picard, even Q concedes that the universe is a better place with Janay Andersen in it.

But how to restore her place? Pretend that she never died? Solitaire Anon would not have the strength of her relationships with McCoy and Cacophony if she had not been pushed by the loss of her dear Janay. She needs that for her own growth, you cannot deny it. And Spock would not be searching for Solitaire Anon's home planet if not for the sequence of events that forced that outcome. You cannot deny that either.

Albeit, Janay is needed by any and all galaxies in the universe, where and when does she belong now? Not as though nothing ever happened – we just covered the reasons Solitaire Anon and her fellow Rrannimmese need such a change of direction, dammit pay attention will you! So, does she just "appear" as a new associate and/or friend to take Janay's place? Does that even sound plausible, much less possible, much less probable? Please. Or do I plop her down somewhere else, never to meet Solitaire Anon again, for the simple reason that the rest of the universe needs Janay Andersen? Nothing could be less satisfactory. Believe me, we immortals are arguing this out, and will eventually come to an agreement, but probably not in your lifetime. Your problem, not mine.

10 mww


	25. Chapter 25 Coda (Revised)

Coda

Author's Note:

I don't have the long and perfect memory of Soli Anon, but I do know where the influences on this story came from, and I want to give credit where it's due.

 **Ktak**

The Ktak are an amalgam of people from three different Star Trek episodes: "The Cage," "The Paradise Syndrome," and "The Chase."

IMHO, credit for "The Chase" should have gone to Theodore Sturgeon, who wrote "The Golden Helix" long before TNG writers came up with "The Chase." In both "The Chase" and "The Golden Helix," the manipulators/sowers of DNA were benevolent. My own take on it is that such creatures would be arrogant and even reckless to mess with evolution on such a large scale, so that's how I wrote the Ktak.

In time sequence, for the purposes of "The Scream," first we have the events of "The Chase." A highly advanced species distributes its DNA to promulgate intelligent life forms in its own image. I call them the Ktak.

Second in time, the Ktak are the mysterious providers of protection in the much-maligned "The Paradise Syndrome." Even some of the worst TOS episodes often had one or more intriguing elements. As a music geek, I loved the idea of tone-based language, common to many animals on Earth, but also clearly an aspect of many Asian languages (which makes them so beautiful to listen to, again IMO).

[In my story, the planet/species name, Rrannimm, came from the only consonants that can be sung. So the Rrannimmese people, singers from birth. I cannot roll my Rs, and that is what gave me the idea of a speech impediment for Soli. I have always felt that I would have such an impediment if my native language called for rolled Rs, and Soli cannot make the complicated clicks that the Ktak, with their finely tuned muscle control over a complex tongue, are able to do.] Getting back on topic, the Ktak took it upon themselves to try to preserve an otherwise doomed species, and in the last generation we pay attention to, Keeper delves into the capacities of the Rrannimmese.

Third sequentially, we have "The Cage" (aka "The Menagerie"), wherein this species (again, in my story, the Ktak) has degenerated and is dying out. With the reboot of Star Trek in 2009, we did not have to assume that Captain Pike was abducted by this species as in "The Cage," merely that the species existed. I decided it was trying to be hide itself from the Federation.

 **CT2**

John Varley wrote wonderful stories that probed the problems of human reproduction in space. Since the replicator was not available during the time of TOS, such limitations would be extremely important and would have to be enforceable. At the same time, nothing is absolutely predictable (thank you Star Trek Voyager), so contingency plans would have been made. As Janay said, some really pessimistic people would plan for worst case scenario. Not a factor in "The Scream," but definitely something the girlfriends would have discussed.

 **The Lights**

The episode these creatures were pulled from was "The Lights of Zatar." I had already decided to refer to them as parasites (lice), so I also decided to have a parasitic organization (Cokindt) instead of Zatar. Figure out the reference if you want; it's not important. What is important is that the story line is a contrivance to have Dr. McCoy meet Soli Anon.

 **Music/Movie/Theater**

There are tons of references and quotes, and almost none of them have anything associated with them to figure out the reference. For reading the story, it doesn't matter. If you are a fellow music/movie/theater geek, you'll either know or be able to find out the references. I hope you enjoy this side aspect.

 **Girlfriends**

Now we get to the crux of my story. I am a woman, and me and many of my woman friends and relations are sick to death of the lack of believable women characters in movies, theater, and television. Movies are expensive, so I only go to those that require the big screen for maximum effect, and hoo-boy are the casts predictable: five to eight men, one woman. The Star Trek 2009 reboot was particularly egregious in this, because they made an explicit decision to get rid of Nurse Chapel ("Into Darkness") and then didn't bring back Marcus for no apparent reason when they put out "Beyond." Adding one woman per movie (Marcus, Jayla) is really, really irritating. And the "actress" who played Jayla was a dancer, so body perfection was all she was cast for. Sorry, dear. Also, too, in "Beyond" Spock and Uhura broke up. Since Spock has friends (Kirk and McCoy) we could hear his thoughts on the break-up. But since there are no other women, we cannot hear Uhura's thoughts because she has no friends! Really? Come on, people! She's wonderful – of course she would have friends and she'd talk to them about why she and Spock broke up! Geezum! Star Trek needs recurring female characters in addition to Uhura for this to work, and it should.

So anyway, back in April of this year I decided to try to come up with some fun and interesting female characters, and "The Scream" is the result. I'm an amateur, a newbie, haven't written a creative writing story since fifth grade, okay? But I came up with Janay and Soli, I love Janay and Soli, and I tried to make them into real, believable people. Janay is a mix of two friends of mine, and Soli is a mix of two relatives. They are science geeks (if you really read the story, you know that Janay is not a geek. She calls herself a geek, but she is actually very cool. Soli actually is a geek. If this is confusing, read the extended preface to "The Knight's Song" from _Through the Looking Glass_. What you are and what you call yourself are two very different things.

Anyway, the goal of this whole project, i.e., my story, is that the most important relationship is between Janay and Soli. Since this was a first effort, I agonized over the quality of the story and almost didn't post it at all, but then I remembered: my goal is a story where the most important relationship is between two women. Yes, I said that twice in one paragraph. I think I succeeded, so I posted the story despite other weaknesses I couldn't overcome due to lack of talent and/or experience. I'm satisfied with my characterization of McCoy, and with how his and Soli's relationship developed, but I still believe that the most important relationship is the two women's friendship, and I do hope the readers agree.

An aspect of writing the story that was very difficult was not exposing the interior life of Soli. I made a conscious decision to have her thought process revealed only through her words (whether oral or neural) and by descriptions of her facial expressions or physical tics, and I'm pretty sure that I wasn't 100% consistent. The character whose interior life is most revealed is McCoy, and that was fun, I confess. A little of Janay's interior, a little of Spock's. I hope it worked.

I am sorry Janay died. I put off writing chapter 6b until it could no longer be avoided, and I cried while writing it. I cried again while writing chapter 7c, wherein Soli comes to terms with her loss. The story told itself before I knew how much I would love Janay, and I had to be true to its arc, but damn, it was really hard.

I have a couple of back stories for Janay, and may pursue one or more of them as well, or just do my own reboot and have a world where she didn't die young.

If I have the wherewithal, I will write two more stories I have in mind for Soli, but this was such an unexpectedly huge time suck of a project, I may pass on them. Depends on feedback from family, friends, and fan fiction readers.

I hope you liked my story and that you might be able to take the time to give me some feedback. But most of all: Thanks for reading.


End file.
